UC-NRLF 


UNIVERSITY  OF  PENNSYLVANIA 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS    OF 
RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

WITH  A  REPRINT  OF  HIS  PLAY,  "THE  DEFORMED,"  1830 


BY 


BRUCE  WELKER  McCULLOUGH 


A  THESIS 

PRESENTED  TO  THE  FACULTY  OF  THE  GRADUATE  SCHOOL  IN 

PARTIAL  FULFILLMENT  OF  THE  REQUIREMENTS  FOR 

THE  DEGREE  OF  DOCTOR  OF  PHILOSOPHY 


GEORGE  BANTA  PUBLISHING  COMPANV 

MENASHA,  WISCONSIN 

1917 


EXCHANGE 


UNIVERSITY  OF  PENNSYLVANIA 


THE  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS    OF 
RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

WITH  A  REPRINT  OF  HIS  PLAY,  "THE  DEFORMED,"  1830 


BY 

BRUCE  WELKER  McCULLOUGH 


A  THESIS 

PRESENTED  TO  THE  FACULTY   OF   THE   GRADUATE   SCHOOLJN 

PARTIAL  FULFILLMENT   OF   THE  REQUIREMENTS  FOR 

THE  DEGREE   OF  DOCTOR   OF  PHILOSOPHY 


GEORGE  BANTA  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

MENASHA,  WISCONSIN 

1917 


••;>  i 


PREFACE 

The  following  study  was  undertaken  in  the  hope  that  it  would  con 
tribute  somewhat  to  the  knowledge  of  our  early  drama,  the  significance 
of  which,  due  in  part  to  its  inaccessibility,  has  not  hitherto  been  fully 
appreciated  by  students  of  our  native  literature.  The  material  herein 
dealt  with  is  inaccessible  to  the  general  student,  being  confined  largely 
to  original  manuscripts  and  to  a  few  early  editions  now  very  scarce. 

I  take  particular  pleasure  in  expressing  my  gratitude  to  Professor 
Quinn,  under  whose  general  direction  the  work  was  done,  for  his  helpful 
suggestions  and  friendly  interest  throughout.  For  access  to  the  unpub 
lished  manuscripts  of  Smith's  plays  and  to  his  published  works  I  am 
indebted  to  the  courtesy  of  the  Historical  Society  of  Pennsylvania, 
and  especially  of  the  Assistant  Librarian,  Mr.  Ernest  SpofTord.  The 
text  of  The  Deformed  is  based  upon  the  edition  of  1830,  the  only  edition 
hitherto  published,  for  which  my  thanks  are  due  to  the  Ridgeway  Branch 
of  the  Philadelphia  Library.  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  William  Rudolph 
Smith  for  several  valuable  letters,  written  to  his  great-uncle,  Richard 
Penn  Smith,  by  Edwin  Forrest  and  others,  to  which  he  kindly  gave 
me  access. 

BRUCE  WELKER  McCuLLOUGH. 

April,  1917. 


381285 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 


I.    BIOGRAPHY 

Richard  Penn  Smith  was  born  in  Philadelphia  at  the  family  home 
on  the  southeast  corner  of  Chestnut  and  Fifth  streets,  the  third  and 
last  son  of  William  Moore  Smith.  His  mother's  maiden  name  was 
Ann  Rudulph.  The  diary  of  his  grandfather,  Rev.  William  Smith, 
D.D.,  first  Provost  of  the  College  of  Philadelphia,  bears  the  following 
entry  relating  to  his  birth:  "March  13th,  1799.  The  wife  of  my  son 
William  Moore  Smith,  gave  birth  to  a  son,  whom  they  call  Richard 
Penn  Smith,  after  his  honor  Richard  Penn,  Esq."1 

The  young  Richard  could  look  back  upon  a  talented  and  refined 
ancestry  and  enjoyed  the  advantages  of  a  cultivated  home  life.  His 
grandfather,  who  had  been  educated  in  Europe,  was  for  twenty-five 
years  Provost  of  the  College  of  Philadelphia.  He  stood  very  high  as  a 
scholar  and  writer  and  was  an  eloquent  preacher.  And  we  are  told  that 
his  son,  William  Moore  Smith,  enjoyed  all  the  advantages  of  the  most 
liberal  education  which  this  country  afforded  at  that  time.  He  was 
spoken  of  as  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  who  possessed  a  high  degree 
of  culture  and  was  a  poet  of  considerable  reputation  in  his  day.  In 
early  life  he  published  a  volume  of  poems,  which  was  republished  in 
England. 

The  early  education  of  Richard  was  received  at  Joseph  Neef 's  gram 
mar  school,  at  the  Falls  of  Schuylkill,  where  he  remained  until  he  was 
ten  years  of  age.  During  the  last  three  years  while  at  the  Neef  school 
he  and  his  brother,  Samuel  Wemyss,  were  also  under  the  care  of  John 
Sanderson,  who  in  1806  came  to  Philadelphia  as  private  tutor  to  William 
Moore  Smith's  children.2 

Upon  leaving  the  Neef  school  the  two  brothers  were  sent  to  a  school 
at  Mount  Airy,  kept  by  John  T.  Carre.  After  a  few  years  spent  there, 
Richard,  now  in  his  teens,  was  sent  to  Huntingdon,  Pa.,  and  placed 
under  the  care  of  John  Johnson,  a  Presbyterian  clergyman,  who  had 

1  Horace  Wemyss  Smith:  Life  of  Rev.  William  Smith,  D.  D.,  First  Provost  of  the 
College  of  Philadelphia.     1880.   Vol.   II.    Page  411. 

2  Sanderson  was  an  ardent  student  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  classics.    William 
Moore  Smith,  upon  one  of  his  annual  tours  up  the  Juniata,  had  found  him  reading  the 
classics  in  the  original.     He  took  a  fancy  to  him,  and  brought  him  to  Philadelphia 
as  the  tutor  and  companion  of  his  two  sons.     While  residing  in  the  Smith  family, 
Sanderson  designed  The  Lives  of  the  Signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,   which 
was  the  first  attempt  to  combine  their  biographies.     Richard  Penn  Smith  contributed 
the  life  of  Francis  Hopkinson  to  this  work. 


2  THE  LITE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

established  a  school  there,  and  was  for  many  years  well  known  as  a 
successful  teacher  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages.  In  1818  he 
returned  to  Philadelphia  and  entered  the  office  of  William  Rawle  to 
study  law,  with  David  Paul  Brown,  Thomas  White  and  Thomas  S. 
Smith  as  fellow  students.  Two  years  later  he  was  admitted  to  practice 
as  a  member  of  the  bar.3 

The  taste  for  letters  shown  by  his  father  and  grandfather  soon 
began  to  take  possession  of  him.  His  first  appearance  as  an  author 
was  in  the  columns  of  the  Union,  where  he  published  a  series  of  moral 
and  literary  essays  under  the  title  of  the  Plagiary.  Near  the  close  of 
the  year  1822  he  purchased  the  newspaper  establishment,  then  well- 
known  throughout  the  country  as  the  "Aurora."4 

From  all  accounts  he  found  the  duties  of  an  editor  wearisome  and, 
after  five  years,  abandoned  them  to  resume  the  profession  of  law.  All 
of  his  biographers  speak  of  his  ability  as  a  classical  scholar  and  of  his 
decided  bent  for  literature.  The  leisure  hours  that  came  with  his  return 
to  the  profession  of  law  were  devoted  to  this  favorite  diversion.  Morton 
McMichael,  a  personal  friend  of  Smith,  wrote  a  short  account  of  him 
during  his  lifetime,  which  was  later  used  as  an  introduction  in  The 
Miscellaneous  Works  of  the  Late  Richard  Penn  Smith  collected  and 
published  by  his  son  Horace  W.  Smith  in  1856,  two  years  after  his 
father's  death.  McMichael  has  the  following  to  say  of  his  literary 
tastes  and  acquirements:  "His  favorite  study  is  the  drama,  and  with 
this  department  of  literature  he  is  thoroughly  familiar.  With  the 
dramatists  of  all  nations  he  has  an  extensive  acquaintance;  and  in  the 
dramatic  history  of  England  and  France,  he  is  profoundly  versed. 
Perhaps  there  are  few  who  have  studied  the  old  masters  in  this  art 
with  more  devoted  attention,  and  with  a  keener  enjoyment  of  their 
beauties." 

An  examination  of  the  list  of  books  comprising  his  library  and  sold 
at  auction  after  his  death  would  seem  to  bear  out  his  biographer's  state 
ment,  for  surely  a  man's  books  may  be  said  to  reflect  his  tastes.  First 
of  all  his  law  library,  consisting  of  over  seventeen  hundred  volumes, 
reminds  us  that  literature  was  only  his  avocation.  Of  his  general 
library  there  were  numerous  works  of  biography,  travel,  history,  and 
poetry,  but  by  far  the  largest  collection  devoted  to  a  single  subject  was 
that  pertaining  to  the  English  drama,  which  contained  over  three 

8  Horace  W.  Smith:  Life  of  Rev.  William  Smith,  vol.  II.  p.  526. 

4  James  Rees  (Colley  Gibber) :  The  Life  of  Edwin  Forrest.     1874.  p.  415. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

hundred  volumes.    There  were  also  a  large  number  of  French  plays 
and  books  relating  to  French  drama.5 

On  the  5th  of  May,  1823,  Smith  married  Mrs.  Elinor  Matilda  Lin 
coln.  Of  the  five  children  born  to  this  union,  only  one,  Horace  Wemyss, 
lived  to  maturity.  It  was  this  son  who  afterwards  edited  the  miscel 
laneous  works  of  his  father  and  wrote  a  life  of  his  great  grandfather, 
Rev.  William  Smith,  in  two  volumes.  Mrs.  Smith  died  in  1833,  leaving 
her  husband  alone  with  his  only  surviving  son,  Horace.  A  very  close 
companionship  sprang  up  between  them,  of  which  the  son  gives  the 
following  account:  "Well  do  I  remember  how  proud  I  was  of  him;  he 
took  me  with  him  wherever  he  went,  and  his  associates  and  companions 
(child  as  I  was)  became  mine.  James  N.  Barker,  Robert  M.  Bird, 
Joseph  C.  Neal,  Edwin  Forrest,  James  Goodman,  Edgar  A.  Poe,  Louis 
A.  Godey,  William  E.  Burton,  Robert  T.  Conrad,  Joseph  C.  Chandler 
and  Morton  McMichael  were  the  literary  magnates  of  Philadelphia 
and  of  all  that  intellectual  coterie  my  father's  star  was  the  brightest, 
his  wit  the  gayest,  and  his  sarcasm  the  most  cutting;  as  a  writer  he  was 
admired;  as  a  dramatist,  at  that  day  the  most  successful  in  the  country, 
and  with  some  fame  as  a  poet,  he  was  beloved  as  a  companion  and  a 
gentleman.  "6 

In  1836  he  married  Isabella  Stratton  Knisell  and  retired  to  the 
family  seat  at  the  Falls  of  Schuylkill,  near  Philadelphia,  where  he  lived 
in  comparative  retirement.  Five  children  were  also  born  to  this  union. 
He  died  August  12,  1854. 

James  Rees,  in  his  Life  of  Edwin  Forrest,  has  called  attention  to  the 
manner  in  which  Richard  Penn  Smith  was  celebrated  for  his  ready  wit, 
sarcastic  humor,  and  repartee.  Few  are  said  to  have  had  the  courage 
to  measure  lances  with  him  in  a  battle  of  wits. 

His  journalistic  training  was  doubtless  responsible  in  part  for  his 
great  facility  in  composition.  Rees  is  authority  for  the  statement  that 
several  of  his  pieces  were  written  and  performed  at  a  week's  notice. 
The  entire  last  act  of  William  Penn  was  written  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  previous  to  its  performance.  Yet  this  hasty  production  ran  ten 
successive  nights,  drawing  full  houses,  and  was  afterwards  revived 
several  times.7  This  very  facility  of  composition,  however,  which 
Smith's  biographers  have  uniformly  praised,  was  responsible  for  serious 

5  These  figures  were  obtained  from  an  examination  of  the  auctioneer's  sale  list. 
•Horace  W.  Smith:  Life  of  Rev.  William  Smith.  Vol.  II.  p.  529. 
7  James  Rees:  The  Life  of  Edwin  Forrest,  p.  417. 


4  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

defects  in  his  work.  Virtually  everything  he  wrote  shows  evidence  of 
hasty  composition,  a  fact  which  often  resulted  in  lack  of  unity  and 
confusion  of  plot,  unreal  characters,  and  lack  of  finish  and  ease  of  style. 
What  a  little  working  over  would  have  accomplished  for  many  of  his 
plays  is  illustrated  by  his  play  The  Deformed,  first  written  in  1825  and 
called  The  Divorce.  An  attempt  to  place  it  upon  the  stage  at  that 
time  was  unsuccessful.  Five  years  later  it  was  revised  by  the  author, 
met  with  hearty  approval  on  the  stage  and  remains,  in  my  opinion,  his 
most  artistic  and  effective  production. 

Most  of  Smith's  writing  was  done  between  the  years  1825  and  1835 
before  he  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty-six.  His  most  significant  contribu 
tion  to  literature  was  in  the  realm  of  the  drama.  He  wrote  twenty  plays 
of  which  fifteen  were  performed  at  various  times  at  the  Philadelphia 
theatres  and  elsewhere.  He  did  not  confine  himself  to  play  writing, 
but  produced  a  novel,  which  had  a  wide  sale,  a  large  number  of  tales 
and  essay-like  sketches,  considerable  verse,  and  some  biography  and 
criticism. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 


II.    THE  PLAYWRIGHT 

The  year  1825  may  be  said  to  mark  a  break  in  our  dramatic  his 
tory.  John  Howard  Payne's  significant  work  was  done  and  the  last 
production  of  James  Nelson  Barker  appeared  on  the  stage  in  1824. 
The  foundation  was  being  laid  for  a  new  school  of  dramatic  writing 
which  had  more  completely  assimilated  its  various  foreign  influences. 
The  most  significant  creative  period  our  drama  had  yet  seen  was  to 
come  between  the  years  1825  and  1860  with  the  development  in  Phila 
delphia  of  a  school  of  romantic  tragedy.  To  Richard  Penn  Smith, 
somewhat  of  a  transition  figure,  belongs  the  honor  of  ushering  in  this 
school. 

Despite  the  activity  of  our  early  playwrights  foreign  plays  had 
continued  to  dominate  the  stage.  The  number  of  American  plays  was 
small  in  comparison  with  the  total  number  of  plays  produced.  The 
majority  of  these  foreign  productions  were  new  plays  from  England 
unknown  to  the  present  generation.  Titles  that  recur  most  frequently 
in  the  stage  histories  of  the  time,  however,  belong  to  the  Elizabethan 
and  Restoration  periods  of  English  dramatic  history,  alongside  the 
plays  of  Goldsmith  and  Sheridan.  With  such  master-pieces  the  first 
attempts  of  our  native  playwrights  had  to  compete.  The  theatrical 
managers,  being  able  to  get  the  best  plays  of  English  dramatists  for 
nothing,  felt  little  disposition  to  risk  hundreds  of  dollars  on  native 
productions,  which  seldom  outlived  the  first  night  unless  aided  by  the 
talent  of  an  acknowledged  star. 

The  revolt  of  the  American  colonies  however  had  meant  more  than  a 
desire  on  the  part  of  the  colonists  for  self-government.  The  desire 
for  self-government  rapidly  grew  into  a  desire  for  complete  independence 
of  England,  literary  as  well  as  social  and  political.  The  pride  that 
Americans  were  beginning  to  feel  in  America  required  them  to  stand 
upon  their  own  feet  in  all  things.  America,  it  was  felt,  was  individual 
and  unique  and  should  produce  her  own  literature,  untainted  by  old 
world  influences.  Reviewers  were  ever  willing  and  anxious  to  encourage 
native  authors.  Though  such  an  attitude  often  led  to  excess  of  praise 
for  everything  American,  it  was  decidedly  beneficial  in  encouraging 
our  native  literature. 

The  attitude  is  well  expressed  by  James  Kirk  Paulding  in  an  edition 
of  his  comedies  in  which  he  says: 


6  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

"  Hitherto  the  people  of  the  United  States  have  been  almost  entirely 
dependant  on  foreign  writers  for  this,  one  of  the  most  influential  of  all 
censors  of  public  manners,  morals  and  tastes,  and  it  seems  obvious  that 
the  productions  of  foreigners,  adapted  to  actions  in  a  state  of  society 
so  widely  different  from  that  of  our  own  country,  can  have  little  appli 
cation  to  us,  either  as  republicans  or  patriots.  Like  every  other  people 
we  require  a  drama  of  our  own,  based  on  our  manners,  habits,  character 
and  political  institutions  and  such  a  drama  it  seems  to  us,  if  sustained 
with  sufficient  spirit  by  American  writers,  would  take  root  and  flourish 
in  the  United  States.  The  foundation  must  be  laid,  however  weak  and 
unfinished,  and  a  hope,  not  indeed  very  sanguine,  is  entertained  that 
this  experiment  may  at  least  be  sufficiently  successful  to  stimulate 
others  better  qualified  to  excel  in  this  rather  neglected  species  of  lit 
erature.  "x 

This  desire  for  literary  independence,  admirable  as  was  its  inten 
tion  to  free  us  from  the  servile  imitation  of  foreign  models,  often  led 
to  exaggeration.  With  not  only  the  people  but  the  critics  demanding 
plays  that  would  flatter  the  public  self-love,  it  was  but  natural  for  the 
playwright  to  fall  into  excesses.  Too  often  his  so-called  independence 
of  England  consisted  merely  in  abusing  her  and  glorifying  self.  Anyone 
showing  a  desire  for  fairness  was  liable  to  criticism.  Richard  Penn 
Smith's  Eighth  of  January  was  criticized,  by  at  least  one  reviewer,  on 
that  account.  Despite  the  fact  that  it  was  written  frankly  to  appeal 
to  patriotism,  to  which  appeal  it  owed  its  success,  the  reviewer  criti 
cized  its  author  for  making  the  English  miller  so  likable  a  figure. 

As  we  have  seen,  Smith  began  his  career  as  a  writer  by  contributing 
literary  and  moral  essays  to  a  newspaper.  As  early  as  1820  he  wrote  a 
long  narrative  poem,  entitled  Francesca  da  Rimini,  the  manuscript  of 
which  still  exists  but  which  he  did  not  publish  because,  as  his  son  tells 
us,  he  afterwards  learned  that  Leigh  Hunt  had  treated  the  same  theme. 
His  editorship  of  the  Aurora  from  1822  to  1827  stimulated  the  writing 
of  verse  and  prose  tales  and  sketches,  much  of  which  first  appeared  in 
its  columns. 

In  1825  he  wrote  a  farce  entitled  The  Pelican,  and  a  melodrama, 
entitled  The  Divorce,  neither  of  which  ever  saw  the  light.  The  latter 
appeared  in  a  revised  form  however  five  years  later,  as  The  Deformed, 
or  Woman's  Trial.  His  only  long  novel,  The  Forsaken,  he  tells  us,  was 
also  written  in  1825,  though  not  published  until  1831. 

1  James  Kirk  Paulding:  American  Comedies  1847.    See  preface. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  7 

The  year  1828  marks  his  first  appearance  as  a  playwright  with  the 
performance  of  Quite  Correct  at  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  Phila 
delphia.  Following  this,  the  years  1829  and  1830  saw  the  production 
of  no  less  than  eight  plays  from  his  pen.  Others  followed,  a  complete 
list  of  which,  with  the  place  and  date  of  publications  and  of  first  per 
formance  is  here  given: 

Quite  Correct,  Phila.,  1835;  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  Phila.,  May 
27,  1828. 

The  Eighth  of  January,  Phila.,  1829;  Chestnut  Street  Theatre, 
Phila.,  January  8th,  1829. 

The  Disowned;  or  The  Prodigals,  Phila.,  1830;  Holiday  Street  Theatre, 
Baltimore,  Mar.  26,  1829. 

A  Wife  at  a  Venture,  Walnut  Street  Theatre,  Phila.  July  25,  1829. 

The  Sentinels',  or  The  Two  Sergeants,  Walnut  Street  Theatre,  Phila., 
December  1829. 

William  Penn;  or  The  Elm  Tree,  Walnut  Street  Theatre,  Phila., 
December  25,  1829. 

The  Triumph  at  Plattsburg,  New  York,  1917;  Chestnut  Street  Thea 
tre,  Phila.,  Jan.  8,  1830. 

The  Deformed,  or  Woman's  Trial;  Phila.,  1830;  Chestnut  Street 
Theatre,  Phila.,  Feb.  4,  1830. 

The  Water  Witch,  or  the  Skimmer  of  the  Seas,  Chestnut  Street  Thea 
tre,  Phila.,  Dec.  25,  1830. 

Caius  Marius,  Arch  Street  Theatre,  Phila.,  Jan.  12,  1831. 

My  Uncle's  Wedding,  Arch  Street  Theatre,  Phila.,  Oct.  15,  1832. 

Is  She  a  Brigand?  Phila.,  1835;  Arch  Street  Theatre,  Phila.,  No 
vember  1,  1833. 

The  Actress  of  Padua,  American  Theatre,  Phila.,  June  13,  1836. 

The  Daughter,  Phila.,  1836. 

The  Bravo. 

The  Bombardment  of  Algiers,  probably  never  acted. 

The  Last  Man,  or  The  Cock  of  the  Village,  not  acted. 

The  Pelican,  not  acted. 

Shakespeare  in  Love,  not  acted. 

The  Solitary,  or  The  Man  of  Mystery,  not  acted. 

The  Eighth  of  January,  The  Disowned,  The  Deformed  and  Is  She  a 
Brigand?  were  published  in  individual  editions.  Quite  Correct  and  Is 
She  a  Brigand?  were  published  in  a  collection  of  plays,  entitled  Alex 
ander's  Modern  Acting  Drama  consisting  of  the  most  popular  plays  pro 
duced  at  the  Philadelphia  Theatres  and  Elsewhere.  Quite  Correct  was 


8  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

also  published  in  a  newspaper  at  the  time  of  its  popularity.  The  Daugh 
ter  was  included  in  a  book  of  tales  and  sketches  by  Smith,  entitled 
The  Actress  of  Padua.  The  play  which  is  now  most  accessible  to  the 
general  reader  is  The  Triumph  at  Plattsburg,  which  was  first  published 
in  1917  in  a  volume  entitled  Representative  American  Plays  collected 
and  edited  by  Prof.  A.  H.  Quinn. 

The  original  manuscripts  of  the  following  plays  are  in  the  Historical 
Society  of  Pennsylvania,  in  Philadelphia:  Quite  Correct,  A  Wife  at 
Venture,  The  Sentinels,  William  Penn,  The  Triumph  at  Plattsburg,  The 
Pelican,  The  Last  Man,  The  Solitary,  Shakespeare  in  Love,  The  Bom 
bardment  of  Algiers,  The  Divorce,  and  a  fragment  of  The  Bravo.  The 
Water  Witch,  My  Uncle's  Wedding,  The  Actress  of  Padua,  and  Caius 
Marius,  except  for  quoted  passages,  have  not  been  preserved. 

Morton  McMichael,  whose  account  of  Smith  was  written  during 
his  life-time,  speaks  of  an  unfinished  play,  entitled  The  Venetian.  How 
ever  he  does  not  include  The  Bravo.  James  Rees  and  H.  W.  Smith, 
each  writing  at  a  later  date,  say  nothing  of  The  Ventian  but  include 
The  Bravo.  It  is  likely  that  The  Bravo,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in 
Venice,  was  first  called  The  Venetian.  It  was  not  unusual  for  managers 
to  change  the  titles  of  plays  for  advertising  and  other  purposes. 

Quite  Correct  was  favorably  reviewed  by  the  papers  and  immediately 
aroused  interest  in  the  new  playwright.  It  is  an  adaptation  of  a  story 
entitled  Doubts  and  Fears,  by  Theodore  Hook,  1788-1841,  an  English 
writer  of  novels  of  social  life.  Doubts  and  Fears  is  one  of  a  series  of 
stories  in  nine  volumes,  by  Hook,  bearing  the  general  title  Sayings  and 
Doings,  1826-1829.  According  to  an  unverified  statement  accompany 
ing  the  play,  Hook's  story  was  based  upon  a  comedy  by  Desaugiers 
and  Gentil,  entitled  LHotel  Garni  ou  la  Le$on  singuliere. 

An  English  play,  entitled  Quite  Correct  was  put  on  at  the  Hay- 
market,  July  29,  1825,  which,  Genest  says,  was  translated  by  Wallace 
from  a  French  piece,  called  the  Slanderer.  Wallace's  version  was 
refused  by  the  managers  of  Drury  Lane.  Caroline  Boaden  made  some 
slight  alterations  and  added  the  character  of  Grojan  who  became  the 
central  figure  of  the  revised  comedy,  which  was  now  put  on  at  the  Hay- 
market  and  acted  forty-eight  times.2 

Ireland  states  that  a  comedy  by  Poole,  entitled  Quite  Correct  was 
performed  at  the  Park  Theatre,  New  York,  Sept.  18,  1826.3  He  adds 

2  John  Genest:  Some  Account  of  the  English  Stage.     1832.  Vol.  9.  p.  315. 
5  J.  N.  Ireland:  Records  of  the  New  York  Stage,  1866.    Vol.  I.  p.  505. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  9 

the  cast  of  characters  which  corresponds  to  the  one  given  by  Genest 
and  to  the  characters  in  Doubts  and  Fears.  It  is  obviously  the  same 
play  and  his  statement  that  it  was  by  Poole  is  probably  an  error. 

Smith's  version  follows  Hook's  both  in  incidents  and  characters, 
with  only  slight  alterations.  The  scene  is  laid  at  a  hotel  in  an  English 
watering  place  and  the  play  derives  its  title  from  the  efforts  of  the 
fussy  landlord  to  maintain  the  respectability  of  his  establishment; 
to  be  "quite  correct"  as  he  repeatedly  says.  The  plot  is  concerned 
with  the  reunion  and  reconciliation  of  a  father  with  his  long-lost  wife 
and  daughter.  A  love  story  is  woven  in  which  ends  happily  when  the 
daughter  turns  out  to  be  of  noble  parentage.  It  is  a  farce  that  ends  in 
melodrama.  Broad  humor  and  caricature  in  the  early  scenes  gives  way 
to  sentiment  at  the  end.  Aside  from  slight  inconsistencies  of  plot, 
perhaps  its  most  serious  defect  lies  in  the  early  revelation  of  the  point 
upon  which  the  plot  turns.  Consequently  the  elements  of  suspense  and 
climax,  so  essential  to  the  success  of  such  a  play,  are  for  the  most  part 
lost.  Mere  dialogue  without  plot  or  incident  may  well  have  been 
successful  on  the  French  stage,  but  when  adapted  for  the  English  or 
American  stage  its  meagreness  in  surprises  detracted  from  its  effective 
ness.  It  proved  very  pleasing  on  the  stage  however  and  revealed 
considerable  skill  on  the  part  of  its  adaptor  in  the  matter  of  stage  effect. 

The  initial  success  of  The  Eighth  of  January,  first  produced  at  the 
Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  Jan.  8,  1829,  is  indicated  in  a  statement  in 
the  memoirs  of  Wemyss  to  the  effect  that  it  was  produced  to  a  house 
of  one  thousand  dollars,  "the  first  and  last  of  the  same  race."4 

It  was  written  in  celebration  of  the  victory  of  Andrew  Jackson  over 
the  British  forces,  Jan.  8,  1815,  in  his  defense  of  New  Orleans  at  the 
close  of  the  War  of  1812.  So  little  time  was  given  to  its  composition 
that  it  was  sent  piecemeal  to  the  theatre  to  be  copied.  The  author 
apologizes,  in  the  preface,  for  its  hasty  composition  but  pleads  in  exten 
uation  that  the  principal  events  in  the  history  of  our  country  should  be 
dramatized  and  exhibited  at  the  theatres  on  days  set  apart  as  national 
festivals.  It  quickly  declined  in  favor  and  when  acted  the  third  night 
for  the  author's  benefit  Durang  reports  that  the  house  was  not  good. 
On  the  evening  of  its  first  performance  the  Walnut  Street  Theatre, 
not  to  be  behind  its  rival,  produced  a  parody,  entitled  The  Glorious 

4  F.  C.  Wemyss:  Twenty-Six  Years  of  the  Life  of  an  Actor  and  Manager.  1847- 
p.  165. 


10  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Eighth  of  January,  which  we  are  told  was  a  ludicrous  battle  of  New 
Orleans.5  The  cast  of  characters  was  as  follows: 

General  Jackson  Mr.  Rowbotham 

Colonel  Kemper  Mr.  Darley 

Sir  Edward  Packenham  Mr.  Wemyss 

Colonel  Thornton  Mr.  Grierson 

McFuse  Mr.  Mercer 

John  Bull  Mr.  Warren 

Charles,  his  son  Mr.  Southwell 

Billy  Bowbell  Mr.  J.  Jefferson 

Rifleman  Mr.  Heyl 

Sergeant  Mr.  Jones 

Charlotte  Mrs.  Rowbotham 

The  play  centers  about  John  Bull,  a  tory  miller,  Charles,  his  son,  who 
has  joined  the  American  army,  and  General  Jackson  during  the  siege 
of  New  Orleans.  Jackson,  in  disguise,  advances  within  the  enemy's 
line  in  quest  of  information.  He  is  surrounded  by  the  enemy,  but  is 
warned  by  Charles  in  time  to  conceal  himself  in  John  Bull's  mill.  Soon 
afterwards,  when  he  is  discovered  and  captured  by  some  British  soldiers, 
he  manages  to  free  himself  by  signing  a  request  for  an  armistice  which 
already  bears  the  signature  of  the  British  commander.  The  last  scene 
depicts  the  progress  of  a  battle  which  ends  victoriously  for  the  American 
arms.  It  ends  with  some  speechmaking  followed  by  Jackson  joining 
the  hands  of  Charles  and  his  cousin  Charlotte. 

A  humorous  vein  is  introduced  in  the  person  of  Billy  Bowbell,  a 
simpleton  who  fancies  that  he  is  to  marry  Charlotte.  The  play  bears 
a  comic  opera-like  resemblance  to  reality.  The  dialogue  is  packed 
with  exchange  of  compliments.  John  Bull  is  full  to  overflowing  with 
noble  sentiments,  as  is  also  General  Jackson,  who  gives  expression  to  the 
democratic  ideals  current  at  the  time. 

In  his  preface  Smith  acknowledges  that  he  derived  some  assistance 
in  writing  his  play  from  a  French  play  by  Frederic.  This  was  Frederic 
Dupetit-Mere,  1785-1827,  an  extremely  prolific  writer  of  popular  melo 
drama  and  vaudeville.  Many  of  his  pieces  were  written  in  collabora 
tion  with  various  other  playwrights  of  his  time,  but  they  were  generally 
published  under  the  name  of  Frederic.  Querard  gives  a  list  of  fifty-one 
plays  thus  produced.6 

A  play  by  John  Howard  Payne  entitled  Peter  Smink',  or  The  Armis 
tice,  first  performed  at  the  Royal  Surrey  Theatre,  July  1822,  bears 

5  Charles  Durang:  The  Philadelphia  Stage,  Second  Series'.  Chap.  46. 
6J.  M.  Querard:  La  France  Litter  air  e.    Paris,  1828.    Vol.  2,  pp.  690  ff. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  1  1 

evidence  of  having  been  derived  from  the  same  source.  Though  its 
scene  is  laid  in  the  Frontiers  of  France,  indicating  that  it  was  a  more 
direct  adaptation,  it  depicts  the  same  general  situation.  There  are 
a  miller  and  his  daughter,  a  French  soldier  in  love  with  the  daughter, 
and  a  French  general  in  disguise,  who,  upon  getting  into  trouble  similar 
to  Jackson's,  escapes  by  the  ruse  of  signing  an  armistice.  It  consists 
of  only  one  act  and  is  a  mere  comic  trifle.  Smith  adapted  his  model 
to  a  different  situation  and  introduced  a  great  many  original  details. 

His  next  venture  upon  the  stage  was  The  Disowned,  first  performed 
at  the  Holiday  Street  Theatre,  Baltimore,  Mar.  26,  1829.  It  was  acted 
in  Philadelphia  in  December  of  the  same  year.7  Wemyss,  who  pro 
duced  it,  tells  us  that  it  first  appeared  as  The  Prodigals,  but  he  rechris- 
tened  it  The  Disowned  in  order  to  avail  himself  of  the  popularity  of 
Bulwer's  novel  of  that  name.  Wemyss,  Durang,  and  Rees  are  authority 
for  the  statement  that  it  and  The  Deformed  were  afterwards  successfully 
performed  in  London. 

The  Disowned  shows  a  marked  advance  in  its  author's  power  as  a 
writer  of  drama.  Like  the  earlier  plays  it  is  an  adaptation,  being 
founded,  as  he  acknowledges  in  the  preface,  upon  a  French  play,  entitled 
Le  Caissier,  a  drama  in  three  acts,  published  in  Paris  in  1826  and  written 
by  Jouslin  De  La  Salle  (Armand-Francois),  1797-1863. 

Many  liberties  were  taken  with  the  original  in  adapting  it  to  the 
American  stage.  The  dialogue  is  simple  and  full  of  spirit  and  bears 
evidence  of  taste  and  skill  in  the  translation.  There  is  no  waste  of 
words  and  idle  declamation.  The  story  develops  rapidly  and  the 
catastrophe  is  striking.  Following  is  the  cast  of  characters  as  performed 
at  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre: 

Duval  (a  banker)  Mr.  Hathwell 

Gustavus  St.  Felix  (his  cashier)  Mr.  Southwell 

St.  Felix  (Gustavus'  Uncle)  Mr.  Jefferson 

Malfoit  (  a  clerk)  Mr.  Wemyss 

Bertrand  Mr.  Rowbotham 

Andrew  (  a  servant)  Mr.  Murray 

Notary  Mr.  McDougal 

Amelia  Mrs.  Darley 

Pauline  (Duval's  daughter)  Mrs.  Rowbotham 

Madame  Mercoeur  Miss  Hathwell 

Justine  (Amelia's  maid)  Miss  Kerr 
Soldiers,  guests,  servants 

The  scene  of  this  tragic  melodrama  is  laid  in  a  village  in  France.    It  is 
7  Durang:  Second  Series.    Chap.  54. 


12  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

concerned  with  the  efforts  of  Malfort,  a  villainous  bank  clerk,  to  marry 
the  banker's  daughter,  Pauline.  He  has  done  everything  he  can  to 
corrupt  Gustavus,  the  favored  suitor,  having  taught  him  to  gamble 
away  the  bank's  funds,  and  introduced  him  to  Amelia,  a  fascinating 
widow.  To  further  his  schemes  he  employs  Bertrand,  a  former  com 
panion  in  rascality,  who  turns  out  to  be  the  ne'er-do-well  brother  of 
Amelia,  and  together  they  plot  to  kill  the  rich  uncle  of  Gustavus.  The 
murder  is  frustrated  by  Amelia  who,  in  saving  the  intended  victim, 
receives  the  dagger-thrust  of  her  brother  in  her  own  breast.  She  dies 
and  the  two  criminals  are  caught.  Bertrand  is  thoroughly  repentant. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  the  changes  thought  necessary  by  the  adap 
tor,  of  which  he  apeaks  in  the  preface.  In  the  French  version  Amelia 
is  not  killed  but  retires  to  a  convent,  and  Bertrand  is  taken  into  cus 
tody  "the  same  hardened  wretch  as  he  appears  in  the  earlier  scenes." 
This  ending  did  not  suit  Smith.  Amelia  is  still  alive  and  the  man  to 
whom  she  is  so  devoutly  attached  marries  another.  Also  the  fact  that 
a  blemish  is  thrown  upon  the  character  of  Amelia  seems  to  him  to 
diminish  the  interest  awakened  by  her  situation.  The  changes  indicate 
that  Smith  was  a  shrewd  playwright  who  knew  what  his  audience  wanted. 

As  changed,  the  situation  is  rendered  more  striking  and  the  play 
possesses  a  greater  sense  of  completeness.  The  willing  self-sacrifice 
of  Amelia,  the  moral  sentiments  expressed  by  her  and  Bertrand,  and 
the  assurance  that  Gustavus  will  soon  assuage  his  grief  in  the  charms  of 
Pauline:  all  these  things  point  to  a  strong  sentimental  appeal  which 
the  play  must  have  had  on  the  stage. 

A  Wife  at  a  Venture  was  first  performed  at  the  Walnut  Street  Thea 
tre,  July  25,  1829,  with  the  following  cast: 

The  Caliph  Mr.  Grierson 

Mourad,  his  favorite  Mr.  Dickson 

Salek,  his  friend  Mr.  Porter 

Ibad,  a  physician  Mr.  Hathwell 

Alcouz,  the  Caliph's  jester  Mr.  J.  Jefferson 

Cadi  Mr.  Warren 

Dennis  O'Whack  Mr.  Greene 

Hassan  Mr.  McDougal 

Kasrak  Mr.  Watson 

Darina  Miss  Kerr 

Lira  Mrs.  Willis 

Rosella  Miss  Hathwell 

It  is  a  confused,  oriental  comedy,  its  scene  laid  in  Bagdad,  a  fitting  place 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  13 

for  such  strange  incidents.  The  plot,  which  is  intricate  and  not  very 
skilfully  constructed,  is  concerned  with  the  events  that  follow  the 
passage  of  a  law  by  the  Caliph  that  every  true  mussulman  must  marry, 
become  a  soldier,  or  pay  a  fine  of  one-third  his  estate.  The  opening 
scene  in  which  Darina  and  Lira  discuss  their  suitors  owes  something  to 
the  famous  scene  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

This  play  was  probably  written  several  years  before  it  first  appeared 
on  the  stage.  The  manuscript  bears  the  dates  1818  and  1819  though 
each  has  been  crossed  out.  Internal  evidence  also  seems  to  point  to 
an  early  composition.  The  tangled  plot  is  constructed  almost  wholly 
out  of  stock  situations.  They  consist  of  a  forged  letter,  royalty  in 
disguise,  mistaken  identity,  a  villainous  guardian,  a  feigned  marriage, 
and  a  mystery  surrounding  the  birth  of  a  lady.  Such  things  are  the 
stock  in  trade  for  writers  of  such  jumbles  of  melodrama  and  comic 
opera. 

The  dialogue  is  stagy  and  unnatural.  When  Salek  employs  his 
feigned  marriage  to  Darina  to  test  the  affections  of  Lira,  she  reproaches 
him  in  strong  if  not  always  elegant  language.  At  first  she  is  only  cold 
and  indifferent  and  gives  the  following  reply  to  his  banter:  "You  do 
not  suppose  I  feel  mortified  at  being  fairly  rid  of  your  increasing  impor 
tunities.  "  But  she  cannot  hold  out  against  his  pleasantries  and,  losing 
her  womanly  dignity,  heaps  such  epithets  upon  him  as  "ungrateful, 
false  and  perfidious,"  "barbarous  and  unfeeling."  She  characterizes 
him  as  a  "perjured,  false-hearted  lover,"  a  "vile,  abominable  flatterer." 
This  is  in  the  style  of  the  period  when  the  distressed  heroine  addressed 
an  ungallant  suitor  as  "contemptible  villain,"  or  "base  wretch."  One 
does  not  have  to  look  beyond  the  novels  of  Cooper  or  Simms  to  find 
such  phrases. 

The  Sentinels;  or,  The  Two  Sergeants  was  first  performed  in  Dec 
ember,  1829,  at  the  Walnut  Street  Theatre.8  It  was  acted  several 
times.  The  manuscript  gives  the  following  cast  of  characters  for  a 
performance  in  1832  at  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre: 

Le  Clair  Mr.  Greenwood 

Felix  Mr.  S.  Chapman 

Morazzi  Mr.  Porter 

Rabateau  Mr.  Allen 

Gustavus  Mrs.  S.  Chapman  (?) 

Adolph  Miss  Anderson 

Valentine  Mr.  Greene 

8  Durang,  Second  Series,  Chap.  51. 


14  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Sailor  Mr.  Bloom 

Madame  Bertrand  Mrs.  Stickney 

Madame  Derville  Mrs.  Greene 

Laurette  Miss  Chapman 

It  is  probable  that  the  date  1832  was  affixed  many  years  later  by  H. 
W.  Smith,  who  had  failed  to  find  a  record  of  its  earliest  performance. 
It  is  a  pleasant,  romantic  comedy  or  melodrama  on  the  theme  of  fidelity. 
The  two  sentinels  are  as  fast  friends  as  Damon  and  Pythias,  and  their 
story  is  somewhat  similar.  The  plot  is  filled  with  romantic  devices 
that  smack  of  the  theatrical,  but  which  must  have  been  very  effective 
on  the  stage. 

During  the  same  month  in  which  The  Sentinels  first  appeared,  a 
new  play  upon  a  native  theme,  entitled  William  Penn\  or,  The  Elm 
Tree,  was  put  on  at  the  Walnut  Street  Theatre,  December  25,  1829. 
Here  again  the  manuscript  differs  from  Durang's  account,  giving  a 
performance  at  the  Arch  Street  Theatre  in  1832  as  the  first. 

Durang  gives  the  following  account  which  indicates  that  it  was 
presented  with  considerable  attention  to  its  scenic  effect: 

"All  the  local  scenes  in  and  adjacent  to  our  city,  wherein  the  promi 
nent  events  in  Penn's  first  interview  with  the  Indians  occurred,  were 
accurately  taken  and  beautifully  painted.  The  great  elm  tree,  the 
ship,  Welcome,  floating  near  the  bank  of  the  Delaware,  under  the 
shadows  of  the  majestic  elm,  were  all  beautifully  depicted  by  the  artist's 
brush."9 

The  cast  of  characters,  which  is  altered  somewhat  from  that  given 
in  the  imperfect  manuscript,  is  as  follows: 

Europeans 

William  Penn  Mr.  Kennedy 

Hickory  Oldboy,  a  Quaker  Mr.  Chapman 

Timothy  Twist,  a  tailor  Mr.  Lefton 

Dennis  O'Rudder,  boatswain  Mr.  Greene 

Indians 

Malebore  Mr.  Porter 

Tangoras  Mr.  Greenwood 

Tammany  Mr.  Clarke 

Manta  Mr.  Garson 

Oulita  Mrs.  Greene 

Whiska  Miss  Hathwell 

The  name  of  the  heroine,  Oulita,  may  have  been  suggested  by  a 
play,  entitled  Oolaita,  or  The  Indian  Heroine,   by  Lewis  Deffebach. 
The  two  plays  bear  no  other  particular  resemblance  however. 
9  Durang,  Second  Series.    Chap.  51. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  15 

Smith's  play  is  concerned  with  Penn's  intervention  to  save  the  life 
of  an  Indian  chief  from  sacrifice  to  a  hostile  tribe.  The  first  act  gives 
a  portrayal  of  the  Indian.  It  depicts  his  love,  his  desire  for  revenge, 
his  heroism  and  self-sacrifice.  In  the  next  scene  Penn  is  presented 
talking  about  the  opportunities  of  the  New  World,  a  land  in  which  he 
hopes  the  poet's  dream  of  Arcadian  happiness  may  sometime  be  realized. 
When  appealed  to,  he  speaks  to  a  group  of  Indians  who  are  preparing 
to  take  the  life  of  Tammany,  an  Indian  chief,  as  a  sacrifice,  and  his 
power  over  them  is  so  miraculous  that  after  a  few  words,  supplemented 
by  some  opportune  claps  of  thunder,  they  all  but  one  throw  away  their 
hatchets  and  Tammany  is  left  unharmed.  A  new  thread  enters  the  plot 
at  this  point  in  the  appearance  of  a  group  of  boisterous  sailors,  but 
the  remainder  of  the  manuscript  has  been  lost  and  the  relation  of  this 
scene  to  the  main  plot  cannot  be  determined. 

We  are  told  that  the  play  was  written  in  great  haste,  a  fact  of  which 
the  plot  construction  and  dialogue  bear  evidence.  The  attempt  to 
make  the  Indians  speak  in  the  particular  kind  of  figurative  language, 
filled  with  reference  to  objects  in  nature,  that  tradition  has  attributed 
to  them,  is  not  always  successful.  For  a  young  Indian  lover  to  say 
of  his  mistress  that  "the  voice  of  Oulita  is  heard  by  the  Sanbeccan  as 
the  passing  breeze  by  the  famished  wolf  when  he  scents  the  blood  of  the 
wild-deer"  is  in  keeping  with  the  tradition.  But  Oulita  is  made  to 
plead  for  her  father,  not  in  such  picturesque  similes,  but  in  the  artificial 
and  stilted  language  of  any  heroine  in  distress  in  the  melodramas  of 
the  period.  Despite  its  shortcomings  as  drama  however  the  piece 
possesses  a  decided  interest  because  of  its  attempt  to  portray  a  great 
historical  figure. 

Only  a  few  days  after  the  appearance  of  William  Penn,  Smith  pro 
duced  another  historical  play,  entitled  The  Triumph  at  Plattsburg, 
first  performed  on  January  8,  1830  at  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre.10 
It  was  written  in  celebration  of  the  fight  in  Plattsburg  Bay,  the  greatest 
naval  battle  of  the  War  of  1812,  which  occurred  September  11,  1814. 
From  Durang's  account  it  must  have  been  put  on  with  considerable 
scenic  effect.  Its  patriotic  appeal  met  with  a  warm  response.  Fol 
lowing  is  the  cast  of  characters: 

Major  McCrea  Mr.  Foot 

Captain  Stanley  Mr.  Rowbotham 

Andre  Macklegraith  Mr.  Maywood 

10  Durang:  Second  Series.    Chap.  55. 


16  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Captain  Peabody  Mr.  J.  Jefferson 

Corporal  Peabody  Mr.  McDougal 

Dr.  Drench  Mr.  Hatwell 

Elinor  McCrea  Mrs.  Roper 

Mrs.  Macklegraith  Mrs.  Turner 

Lucy  >  Miss  Waring 

Mrs.  Drench  Miss  Armstrong 

Stated  briefly,  the  plot  is  concerned  with  the  efforts  of  Major  McCrea 
to  find  his  daughter  Elinor  who  he  thinks,  has  been  seduced  by  a  British 
officer.  His  life  is  endangered,  but  he  manages  to  escape,  taking  with 
him  his  daughter,  who  has  turned  up  in  search  of  her  husband.  He 
then  learns  that  his  daughter's  marriage  is  genuine.  The  remainder 
of  the  play  follows  the  progress  of  the  battle,  which  ends  with  a  "bril 
liant  victory  for  the  Americans"  the  closing  scenes  being  more  important 
for  their  scenic  effect  than  anything  else. 

The  Philadelphia  Daily  Chronicle,  on  Feb.  4,  1830,  bore  the  follow 
ing  announcement  of  a  new  play  to  be  performed  at  the  Chestnut 
Street  Theatre: 

"The  Manager,  ever  anxious  to  encourage  native  talent,  begs  leave 
to  inform  his  fellow  citizens  that  the  greatest  care  and  attention  has 
been  bestowed  upon  the  present  drama,  and  that  no  effort  has  been 
wanting  to  render  it  worthy  their  approbation  and  support.  This 
evening,  February  4,  will  be  performed  an  entire  new  drama,  written 
by  R.  P.  Smith,  Esq.,  of  this  city,  author  of  The  Disowned,  Eighth  of 
January,  etc.,  and  which  has  been  some  weeks  in  preparation,  called 
The  Deformed;  or  Woman's  Trial." 

Its  success  on  the  stage  is  thus  recorded  by  Durang: 

"This  was  a  most  excellent  drama  and  deserves  a  lasting  reputation 
which  it  must  obtain  from  refined  taste  and  unprejudiced  judgment."11 
It  was  repeated  at  various  times  and,  according  to  Durang  and  Rees, 
was  successfully  performed  in  London.  Mrs.  Thayer  chose  it  for  her 
benefit  performance  March  18,  1839  at  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre, 
Philadelphia,  upon  which  occasion  she  appeared  as  Oriana. 

The  Deformed  is  based  upon  the  second  part  of  The  Honest  Whore, 
by  Thomas  Dekker.  Smith  was  not  the  first  American  playwright  to 
adapt  this  comedy  of  Dekker's.  A  comedy  by  William  Dunlap,  entitled 
The  Italian  Father,  first  performed  at  the  Park  Theatre,  New  York, 
April  13,  1799,  and  published  in  1820,  sprang  from  the  same  source. 
Thus  when  Smith  came  to  write  The  Deformed  he  had  the  original  and 

11  Durang:  Third  Series.     Chap.  56. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  17 

its  previous  adaptation  before  him,  to  each  of  which  he  makes  due 
acknowledgement. 

Dunlap  follows  his  model  much  more  closely  than  Smith.  The  first 
scene  of  Act  Four  and  the  first  scene  of  Act  Five,  both  of  which  are 
relatively  unimportant  comic  scenes,  are  the  only  scenes  in  The  Italian 
Father  not  to  be  found  in  some  form,  in  Dekker.  The  second  scene  of 
Act  Two,  both  scenes  of  Act  Three,  the  second  scene  of  Act  Four,  and 
the  third  scene  of  Act  Five  contain  new  elements,  but  are  mostly  taken 
from  Dekker.  He  adds  very  little  to  change  the  essential  character  of 
the  play. 

But  of  the  fifteen  scenes  in  The  Deformed  only  six  are  to  be  found 
in  either  Dekker  or  Dunlap.  The  second  scene  of  Act  One,  the  second 
and  third  scenes  of  Act  Two,  both  scenes  of  Act  Three,  the  second  and 
third  scenes  of  Act  Four,  and  the  first  two  scenes  of  Act  Five  were 
invented  by  Smith  and  develop  what  becomes  the  dominant  theme  of 
the  play. 

Both  Dunlap  and  Smith  cut  down  the  number  of  characters.  The 
twenty-one  people  of  Dekker's  play  are  reduced  to  ten  in  The  Deformed. 
The  Duke  takes  the  place  of  Hippolito  in  the  other  plays;  Trebatzo 
occupies  the  place  of  Friscobaldo  in  Dekker  and  of  Michael  Brazzo  in 
Dunlap;  Beraldo  and  Astrabel,  who  get  their  names  directly  from  The 
Italian  Father,  are  Matheo  and  Belief ront  in  the  original  play;  Lodovico 
occurs  in  all  three  plays.  Of  the  remaining  characters  Oriana  corres 
ponds  to  Infelice  in  Dekker's  play  and  to  Beatrice  in  Dunlap's;  while 
Claudio  and  Viola  bear  a  slight  relation  to  Carlo  and  Leonora,  in  Dun- 
lap,  they  are  virtually  new  characters;  Adorni,  the  deformed,  and  his 
wife,  Eugenia,  who  is  also  a  sister  of  Astrabel,  are  original  creations. 

Dekker's  two  plays,  entitled  The  Honest  Whore,  each  center  about 
the  fortunes  of  Bellefront,  a  courtesan.  In  the  earlier  play  her  regenera 
tion  is  accomplished  through  her  failure  to  gain  the  love  of  a  man  who 
takes  her  passing  fancy  and  his  rebuke  in  pointing  out  to  her  her  aban 
doned  state.  The  second  part  portrays  her  effort  to  rehabilitate  herself 
and  live  as  a  virtuous  woman  and  dutiful  wife.  The  interest  centers 
about  Bellefront  and  her  father  Friscobaldo. 

In  the  similar  efforts  of  Astrabel  and  her  relationship  with  Trebatzo 
this  theme  recurs  in  the  The  Deformed.  But  it  is  no  longer  the  central 
interest.  About  Adorni,  whose  great  craving  for  love  is  only  equalled 
by  an  insane  jealousy,  due  to  his  physical  deformity,  Smith  weaves  a 
thread  of  incidents  which  form  the  dominant  theme  of  the  play. 


18  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

The  dramatic  situation  is  heightened  by  the  creation  of  Eugenia, 
another  daughter  to  cause  sorrow  to  Trebatzo  by  her  seeming  misdeeds. 
Trebatzo's  idea  of  having  the  Duke  make  love  to  Astrabel  to  test  her 
honesty  is  taken  from  Dunlap  and  extended  to  include  Eugenia  when 
suspicion  falls  upon  her. 

One  notable  feature  in  The  Deformed  is  the  absence  of  a  villain,  a 
conventionalized  character  thought  necessary  for  the  success  of  any 
dramatic  production  by  most  playwrights  of  the  time.  His  absence 
marks  a  decided  step  in  the  direction  of  art.  The  play  contains  much 
excellent  blank  verse. 

The  Water  Witch',  or  The  Skimmer  of  the  Seas,  a  dramatization  of 
Cooper's  novel,  first  performed  at  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  Dec. 
25,  1830,  has  not  been  preserved.  The  cast  of  characters,  taken  from 
a  play-bill,  was  as  follows: 

Tom  Tiller  Mr.  Wemyss 

Seadrift  Mrs.  Young 

Alderman  VanBeverout  Mr.  Roberts 

Captain  Ludlow  Mr.  Woodhull 

Francois  Mr.  Drummond 

Trysail,  the  master  Mr.  Darley 

Zephyr  Miss  Kerr 

Boatman  Mr.  Murray 

Reef  Mr.  Eberle 

Brom  Mr.  McDougal 

Alida  de  Barberie  Mrs.  Willis 

Durang  speaks  of  the  adaptation  as  being  good,  but  not  so  good  in  all 
acting  particulars  and  effects  as  a  version  of  the  same  subject  which 
was  performed  the  next  season  at  the  Arch  Street  Theatre.12  The  part 
of  Tom  Tiller  caused  trouble.  On  the  day  before  its  intended  produc 
tion,  Charles  Young  refused  to  act  the  character  on  the  ground  that 
he  could  not  learn  the  words  of  the  part.  Wemyss  was  appealed  to  at 
this  late  hour  and  undertook  and  carried  off  the  part  successfully.  The 
piece  was  afterwards  compressed  into  two  acts  and  played  one  night 
more  to  show  some  of  the  marine  effects.  The  ship  fight  was  described 
as  terrific. 

Two  new  versions  of  The  Water  Witch  appeared  the  following  year. 
The  Arch  Street  production,  by  James  Wallace,  was  the  more  popular 
and  ran  for  a  long  season.  It  was  said  to  be  less  prolix  and  dragging 

12  Durang:  Third  Series.    Chap.  4. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  19 

than  Smith's.    Another  version  by  C.  W.  Taylor,  known  as  the  Bowery 
version,  was  produced  in  New  York. 

Smith's  next  production  marks  definitely  an  attempt  upon  the  part 
of  the  author  to  enter  a  new  field.  Caius  Marius  represents  the  roman 
tic  verse  tragedy,  written  under  the  inspiration  of  Edwin  Forrest,  and 
included  among  his  prize  plays.13 

The  references  to  the  tragedy  in  the  following  letter  from  Forrest 
are  interesting: 

Dear  Smith: 

I  have  rec'd  the  4th  and  5th  acts  of  Marius  but  as  yet  have  not  perused  them 
attentively.  The  third  act  is  yet  wanting  to  complete  the  play.  Could  you  send  it 
on  so  as  to  reach  here  by  12  o'clock  Sat.  next  it  would  be  well  as  on  the  afternoon  of 
that  day  I  shall  depart  for  Boston.  However  it  makes  no  material  difference  for 
by  sending  it  addressed  to  the  Park  Theatre  it  would  be  forwarded  with  care  to  Boston. 
I  have  increasing  pride  for  the  tragedy.  It  is  destined  to  make  a  great  hit.  We  must 
take  out  time,  however,  to  produce  it,  giving  all  the  proper  preliminaries  such  as  re 
hearsal,  costume,  and  the  newspaper  mention  by  implication  tho'  the  latter  if  it  was 
not  the  fashion  there  would  in  my  mind  be  no  necessity;  its  own  merit  can  stand  the 
hazard  of  the  die — but  of  eulogy  there  must  be  the  "due  infusion."  Before  I  leave 
town  I  will  leave  the  necessary  instructions. 

I  forwarded  you  a  pacquet  this  morning  by  the  steamboat  (care  of  Carey  & 
Lea)  containing  four  volumes  of  Lexington  and  other  Fugitive  Pieces,  by  Prosper  M. 
Witmore.  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  deliver  them  according  to  their  directions  and 
make  what  public  notice  your  various  duties  will  permit,  and  further  may  I  encroach 
so  much  upon  your  time  to  discover  whether  Chandler,  Walsh,  Alexander,  Rob't 
Morris  and  Willis  G.  Clark  have  rec'd  their  copies  of  Lexington  as  the  Carvills  (book 
sellers)  have  forwarded  them  to  their  agent  in  Philada.  for  the  above  mentioned  ind- 
viduals. 

I  will  have  the  parts  of  Marius  copied  for  Boston,  N.  York,  and  Philada. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Edwin  Forrest. 
Rich'd  P.  Smith,  Esq., 

N.  York  7th  Oct.  1830. 

My  engagement  here  has  been  eminently  successful. 

In  another  letter  written  later  he  speaks  of  certain  alteration  and 
says  that  he  has  not  yet  made  up  his  mind  whether  to  bring  it  out  in 
Boston  or  New  York.  He  did,  however  bring  it  out  at  the  Arch  Street 
Theatre,  Philadelphia,  Jan.  12,  1831.14  Weymss  tells  us  that  the  same 
play  was  placed  in  his  hands  in  1828  when  Southwell  was  cast  for  the 
hero  but  was  not  produced.  Outside  of  a  few  extracts  it  has  not  been 

13  W.  R.  Alger:  Life  of  Edwin  Forrest,  1877.  Vol.  1  Page  169. 

14  Wemyss:  Theatrical  Life,  1847.  p.  188. 


20  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

preserved.  It  was  repeated  on  Jan.  14,  and  again  on  the  17th  which 
was  the  author's  benefit  night. 

It  was  performed  at  the  Park  Theatre,  New  York,  May  9,  1831, 
thus  cast: 

Cams  Marius  Mr.  Forrest 

Granius  Mr.  Field 

Metellus  Mr.  Woodhull 

Sulpitius  Mr.  Barry 

Sylla  Mr.  Richings 

Cinna  Mr.  Nexsen 

Antonius  Mr.  T.  Placide 

A  Cimbrian  Mr.  Blakely 

Martha  Mrs.  Sharpe 

Metella  Mrs.  Wallack 

Upon  his  return  from  a  tour  in  the  North,  in  which  Caius  Marius  was 
a  companion  piece  in  a  repertoire  with  Spartacus,  William  Tell,  Vir- 
ginius,  and  Lear,  Forrest  again  acted  it  in  Philadelphia,  November,  1831. 
Durang  gives  the  following  account  of  its  performance: 

"The  fable  of  this  tragedy  was  founded  upon  the  historical  events 
in  the  career  of  Caius  Marius,  the  celebrated  Roman  who  from  a  hum 
ble  rustic  became  a  general  and  consul,  successfully  defending  his  country 
against  hosts  of  barbarians;  yet  with  all  his  patriotic  and  victorious 
achievements,  he  became  one  of  the  most  cruel  and  bloody  tyrants 
Rome  ever  beheld.  When  fleeing  as  a  fugitive  from  Italy  he  sought 
refuge  in  Africa  and  arriving  at  Carthage  he  sat  amidst  its  celebrated 
ruins  as  a  signal  monument  of  moral  prostration,  as  the  annihilated 
marbles  of  its  city  declared  its  isolation  and  destruction.  When  thus 
seen  and  spoken  to,  he  answered  the  slave:  'Go  tell  your  master  you 
saw  Marius  sitting  on  the  ruins  of  Carthage. '" 

"The  play  was  dramatically  constructed,  with  the  vigor  of  language 
and  harmony  of  versification,  eventualizing  in  poetic  justic.  It  was 
written  with  a  view  to  the  development  of  Forrest's  peculiar  powers, 
which  were  well  fitted  to  impart  to  the  subject  all  its  terrific  historical 
colorings."15 

The  critics  were  unanimous  in  praising  the  literary  quality  of  the 
production.  It  was  an  attempt  to  combine  literature  and  drama  and 
it  is  a  misfortune  that  the  manuscript  was  not  preserved. 

My  Uncle's  Wedding  was  first  performed  at  the  Arch  Street  Theatre, 
October  15,  1832.16  The  manuscript  of  this  play  has  not  been  preserved 

15  Durang.  Third  Series.  Chap.  10. 

16  Durang.  Third  Series.  Chap.  25. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  21 

and  I  have  found  no  comment  on  its  performance  more  explicit  than 
that  it  was  a  pleasing  and  spirited  little  comedy. 

Is  She  a  Brigand?  was  first  performed  at  the  Arch  Street  Theatre, 
Nov  1,  1833,17  with  the  following  cast: 

Colonel  Herman  Mr.  Sprague 

Lindorf  Mr.  Jones 

Peter  Schnaps  Mr.  T.  Placide 

Fribourg  Mr.  Horton 

First  Friend  Mr.  James 

Second  Friend  Mr.  Foster 

Fritz  Mr.  Logan 

Clara,  Countess  D'Albi  Miss  Riddle 

Bridget,  her  maid  Mrs.  Jones 

Mariette  Mrs.  Conduit 
Soldiers,  Villagers,  and  Guests. 

It  is  a  farce  comedy  which,  as  he  states  on  the  title  page,  was  altered 
from  the  French.  What  his  exact  source  was  I  have  not  been  able  to 
learn. 

Mistaken  identity  is  the  central  factor  of  the  plot.  Clara,  Countess 
D'Albi,  is  hastening  to  the  chateau  of  Colonel  Herman,  her  former 
lover,  in  order  to  prevent  his  marriage,  when  she  is  mistaken  for  Clara 
Wendell,  a  notorious  brigand,  and  held  up  at  a  Swiss  hotel.  Realizing 
that  an  attempt  to  establish  her  identity  will  delay  her  more,  she  con 
fesses  that  she  is  the  brigand  and  claims  that  her  band  is  already  awaiting 
her  signal  to  attack  and  pillage  the  chateau  of  Colonel  Herman.  She 
promises  to  place  them  all  in  the  burgomaster's  power  if  he  will  conduct 
her  there  at  once.  The  ruse  works  and  she  reaches  her  lover  only  to 
find  that  his  reported  marriage  was  contrived  to  test  her  affections. 
The  burgomaster,  who  has  been  so  completely  duped,  lamely  excuses 
himself  by  claiming  that  he  has  been  aware  of  the  real  situation  all 
along  and  has  taken  this  means  of  escorting  Countess  D'Albi  in  safety 
to  the  chateau. 

The  plot  is  essentially  farcial.  Herman's  unique  method  of  testing 
the  affection  of  Clara  betrays  more  faith  than  good  judgment  on  his 
part.  And  the  picture  of  the  sensitive  and  refined  countess  hastening 
to  prevent  the  marriage  of  her  lover,  with  whom  she  has  recently  quar 
reled,  is  equally  in  the  nature  of  farce.  The  most  interesting  personage 
is  the  burgomaster,  who  is  pompous,  stupid  and  cowardly.  His  training  in 
Paris  is  an  ill-fitting  garment  and  his  high  opinion  of  himself  as  a  gallant 

17  Durang.  Third  Series.  Chap.  30. 


22  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

only  serves  to  render  his  oily  gallantries  the  more  odious  to  Clara.  The 
dialogue  is  lively  and  sparkling,  and  abounds  in  humor.  The  situation 
is  highly  amusing  and  is  at  all  times  clear. 

The  earliest  announcement  I  have  found  of  a  performance  of  The 
Actress  of  Padua  is  a  playbill  announcing  its  performance  at  the  American 
Theatre,  Philadelphia,  June  13,  1836  with  the  cast  here  given: 

Angelo  Malipieri  Mr.  Conner 

Homodei  Mr.  Muzzy 

Anasfesto  Mr.  Moreton 

Priest  Mr.  Brittingham 

Black  Page  Miss  Packard 

Rodolpho  Mr.  J.  G.  Porter 

Prior  of  St.  Antoine  Mr.  Search 

Troilo  Mr.  Cronta 

Night  Watch  Mr.  Collingbourne 

Tisbe  (Actress  of  Padua)  Miss  Waring 

Reginella  Mrs.  Dunham 

Daphne  Miss  Charnock 

Catherina  Bragadina  Mrs.  Willis 

It  was  published  in  narrative  form  in  1836  but  has  not  been  pre 
served  in  its  dramatic  form.  A  melodrama  by  Victor  Hugo,  entitled 
Angelo,  Tyran  de  Padoue  is  the  source  of  Smith's  production.  Judging 
from  the  narrative  version  his  play  must  have  been  a  comparatively 
direct  translation.  The  incidents  in  the  narrative  are  the  same  and 
much  of  the  dialogue  is  taken  directly  from  the  French. 

It  is  a  stirring  tale  of  love,  jealousy  and  mystery  in  erotic  Italy  of 
the  sixteenth  century.  Its  plot  is  laid  in  an  atmosphere  of  crime  and 
intense  passion.  But  La  Tisbe,  the  actress,  who  is  in  the  grip  of  this 
passion,  is  a  heroic  figure.  She  remains  loyal  and  faithful  to  her  pledge 
even  when  it  means  sacrificing  her  life  to  save  a  woman  who  has  won 
from  her  the  only  man  she  ever  loved. 

This  play  enjoyed  the  longest  popularity  of  any  of  Smith's  pro 
ductions.  It  was  produced  at  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia, 
in  1851  with  Charlotte  Cushman  in  the  title  r61e.  She  appeared  as 
La  Tisbe  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  New  York,  September  29,  1851,18 
and  at  the  Broadway  Theatre,  May  8,  1852.19  It  was  performed  at 
the  New  Bowery  Theatre,  Feb.  16,  1860,  with  Lucile  Western  as  La 
Tisbe  and  Helen  Western  as  Catharina.20  Lucile  Western  again  ap- 

18  J.  N.  Ireland:  Records  of  the  New  York  Stage,  1867.  Vol.  2.  p.  600. 

"Ireland:  Vol.  2.  p.  594. 

20  T.  A.  Brown:  A  History  of  the  New  York  Stage,  1903.  Vol.  2.  p.  191. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  23 

peared  in  the  title  role  at  Tripler  Hall  in  the  spring  of  1863.21    Further 

notice  is  given  in  Brown  of  a  performance  of  The  Actress  of  Padua  at 

Daly's  Broadway  Theatre,  Nov.  8,  1873,  with  Virginia  Vaughan  as 

Tisbe.22 

Minna   Gale   in   the   leading  part.23 

The  Daughter  appears  to  have  been  among  the  last  of  Smith's  plays 
to  appear  on  the  stage.  It  is  included  by  Rees  and  McMichael  among 
the  acted  plays  but  I  have  found  no  account  of  its  performance.  It  was 
dramatized  from  a  French  novel,  published  in  1808,  entitled  Le  siege 
de  La  Rochelle,  ou  le  malheur  de  la  conscience,  by  Madame  de  Genlis, 
1746-1830,  a  French  writer  and  educator  who,  in  addition  to  several 
ingenious  books  on  education,  wrote  a  large  number  of  historical  roman 
ces.  The  Daughter  portrays  the  closing  scenes  of  her  highly-wrought 
and  sentimental  novel.  It  bears  no  resemblance  to  a  play  by  Sheridan 
Knowles,  entitled  The  Daughter  and  first  performed  at  Drury  Lane  in 
1836. 

The  characters  of  Smith's  production  are: 

Count  Rosenberg,  husband  of  Euphemia. 

Valmore,  French  Ambassador 

Montalban,  supposed  father  of  Clara 

Peter,  Marcelle's  son 

Euphemia,  sister  of  the  Grand  Duke  of  Lithuania. 

Clara,  under  the  name  of  Olympia 

Marcelle,  a  cottager 

Mystery,  crime  and  intrigue  are  the  materials  that  go  into  the  con 
struction  of  this  domestic  drama.  Its  complicated  plot  centers  about 
a  girl  who  has  been  unjustly  convicted  of  killing  her  fiance's  son.  Silence 
is  enforced  upon  her  by  the  fear  that  the  man,  whom  she  supposes  to 
be  her  father,  is  the  real  murderer.  After  having  suffered  much  pain 
and  distress,  she  eventually  comes  into  her  own  in  discovering  her  real 
father  and  mother  and  winning  back  her  lost  lover.  The  ending,  which 
is  typical  of  this  class  of  plays,  is  in  accord  with  the  wishes  of  Marcelle 
who  says,  while  thinking  of  Clara:  "I  can  not  bear  the  idea  of  crime 
triumphing  over  persecuted  virtue." 

Like  the  majority  of  Smith's  plays,  and  the  other  plays  of  the  period, 
The  Daughter  lacks  naturalness.  All  the  characters  use  the  same  kind 
of  stilted  language.  The  humble  cottager,  Marcelle,  employes  cul- 

21  Brown:  New  York  Stage.  Vol.   1.  p.  456. 

22  Brown.    Vol.    2.    p.    392. 


24  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

tivated  phrases  similar  to  those  of  Count  Rosenberg,  Montalban,  the 
villain,  when  accused  of  crime,  replies  thus:  "Unworthy  woman,  are 
you  aware  of  the  barbarity  of  your  calumnious  imputations,  and  the 
punishment  that  you  may  invoke  upon  yourself?" 

The  characters  are  nearly  all  types  in  the  conventional  mould. 
Montalban  is  a  half-hearted  villain  who  no  sooner  confesses  than  he 
turnes  moralist  and  declaims  against  the  sin  of  avarice.  Clara,  the 
heroine,  suffers  from  an  excess  of  virtue.  Peter,  the  simple-minded 
son  of  Marcelle,  and  the  only  character  who  does  not  succumb  to  the 
gloom  that  enshrouds  Clara's  existence,  keeps  up  his  spirits  by  the 
thought  of  good  things  to  eat. 

James  Rees  and  H.  W.  Smith  include  The  Bravo  in  the  list  of  acted 
plays.  Apparently  it  was  the  last  one  to  appear.  It  is  a  dramatiza 
tion  of  Cooper's  novel  of  that  title,  a  highly-wrought  tale  of  mystery, 
crime  and  revenge  in  Italy  during  the  fifteenth  century.  The  manu 
script  has  not  been  preserved.  I  give  here  a  letter  received  by  Smith, 
which  indicates  the  date  and  a  probable  performance. 

New  York 

Sunday,  4th  of  Dec.  1836 
My  dear  Sir: 

If  your  intention  and  wish  is  still  the  same,  and  you  will  send  me  forthwith  a 
revised  copy  of  your  play  of  The  Bravo,  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  receive  it,  and  will 
give  it  my  best  attention,  and  will  have  it  produced  in  the  south  to  the  best  of  my 
ability,  and  with  the  best  means  the  theatres  can  afford,  and  it  will  have  my  best 
wishes  that  its  success  may  be  "most  best." 

If  our  friend,  Maywood,  will  go  to  a  little  expense  for  it,  I  think  it  might  be  made 
a  good  card  to  commence  my  May  engagement  with, — and  as  you  will  be  on  the  spot 
all  the  time,  you  can  urge  them  on  to  exertion,  and  see  that  the  scenery  etc.  be  appro 
priate.  I  sail  on  the  12th.  Let  me  hear  from  you  by  return. 

My  dear  sir, 

Your  obliged  friend, 
J.  W.  Wallack. 

The  Bombardment  of  Algiers,  written  in  1829,  deals  with  a  series  of 
incidents  in  the  French  conquest  of  Algeria.  It  is  a  translation  of  a 
three-act  melodrama  by  Frederic  Dupetit-Mere,  entitled  Le  Bom- 
bar  dement  d'Alger,  ou  le  Corsaire  Reconnaissant,  a  second  edition  of 
which  was  published  in  Paris  in  1815.23  I  have  found  no  evidence  that 
Smith's  translation  was  ever  performed.  A  play,  entitled  Slaves  in 
Barbary;  or  The  Bombardment  of  Algiers,  dealing  with  the  same  theme 
but  written  by  John  K.  Kerr,  was  performed  eleven  times  during  Octo- 

23  J.  M.  Querard:  La  France  Litter aire.  Vol.  2,  p.  690. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  25 

ber,  1830,  at  the  Walnut  Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia.24  Kerr's  version 
doubtless  came  from  the  same  French  source  as  Smith's.  The  cast 
of  characters,  while  it  does  not  wholly  correspond,  shows  considerable 
similarity,  thus  indicating  a  common  source  and  similarity  of  theme. 
The  manuscript  of  Smith's  play  gives  the  following  cast  of  characters: 

Ismael  Meramorte,  Dey  of  Algiers  Grierson 

Chevalier  Choiseuil  Southwell 

Barbuctar  Rowbotham 

Osmin,  a  eunich  of  the  harem  J.  Jefferson 

Almutacem  Murdock 

Benjamin  Placide 

Nilouf,  chief  of  the  eunichs  Hathwell 
A  crier 

Valentine,  ChoiseuiPs  Wife  Mrs.  Rowbotham 
Slaves,  guards,  soldiers,  sailors. 

This  cast,  to  which  other  names  are  added,  appears  to  be  merely  a  sug 
gestion  of  the  author  and  not  to  refer  to  any  actual  performance.  It 
is  a  striking  but  wild  and  confused  melodrama  with  a  great  deal  of 
fighting  in  the  last  act.  There  is  no  reason  why  it  could  not  have  been 
made  very  effective  on  the  stage.  A  vein  of  humor  permeates  a  large 
part  of  it.  It  is  full  of  thrilling  situations  such  as  Valentine's  escape 
from  the  harem.  She  is  captured  and  again  escapes.  The  character 
of  Barbuctar  adds  to  the  heroic  quality  of  the  play.  At  the  risk  of 
incurring  the  anger  of  the  Dey  he  reveals  to  him  the  misery  and  dis 
satisfaction  of  his  people  and  the  falseness  of  his  flatterers.  The  play 
ends  happily.  Peace  is  restored;  Choiseuil  and  his  wife  are  re-united; 
and  Almutacem,  the  villain,  is  hauled  away  to  pay  for  his  crimes.  It 
is  a  typical  melodrama. 

The  Last  Man;  or  The  Cock  of  the  Village  and  The  Pelican  are  trivial 
farces  which  bear  evidence  of  having  been  adapted  from  the  French. 

Shakespeare  in  Love  is  a  direct  .translation  of  a  French  play  by  Alex- 
andre  Duval,  entitled  Shakespeare  Amour eux.  It  is  a  short  play  of 
only  three  characters,  based  upon  a  glaring  anachronism  in  having 
Shakespeare  fall  in  love  with  an  actress  who  is  playing  in  Richard  III. 
Dunlap  gives  an  anonymous  play,  bearing  the  same  title  as  Smith's, 
as  having  been  acted  in  Boston  before  1832.25 
It  is  likely  that  this  was  some  other  translation  of  Duval. 

24Durang.    Third    Series.    Chap.    11. 

25  Dunlap.     History  of  the  American  Theatre,  1832.  p.  407. 


26  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OP  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

The  Solitary;  or  The  Man  of  Mystery  is  an  unfinished  melodrama, 
dealing  with  Charles  the  Bold,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  and  in  which  crime, 
mystery,  and  intrigue  are  the  leading  motives. 

Smith's  total  contribution  to  the  stage  may  be  divided  into  five 
classes;  namely,  melodrama,  historical  plays,  tragedy,  comedy,  and 
farce.  Of  these  classes  only  the  historical  plays  and  verse  tragedy  are 
sharply  defined.  The  historical  plays,  three  in  number,  are  of  particular 
interest  because  of  the  historical  scenes  and  incidents  they  represent. 
Though  written  in  haste  and  sometimes  without  due  regard  for  the 
niceties  of  dramatic  art,  they  afford  good  examples  of  the  remarkable 
facility  of  the  age  in  representing  current  events  upon  the  stage.  Their 
significance  is  increased  by  the  fact  that  they  form  Smith's  most  original 
contribution. 

Perhaps  his  most  pretentious  effort  to  produce  drama  with  a  dis 
tinct  literary  quali  ty  was  his  verse  tragedy,  Cams  Marius,  unfortunately 
lost  to  us.  Its  literary  quality  was  uniformly  praised  by  the  reviewers. 

The  remaining  three  classes,  comedy,  farce,  and  melodrama,  are 
by  no  means  clearly  differentiated,  but  shade  off  into  each  other  by 
imperceptible  degrees.  Comedy  mingles  with  melodrama  in  the  two 
farces,  Quite  Correct  and  Is  She  a  Brigand?  as  it  does  in  other  of  his 
plays. 

The  one  word  that  may  be  applied  most  uniformly  to  the  plays  is 
melodrama.  It  pervades  nearly  all  of  Smith's  work.  It  combines 
with  humor  in  A  Wife  at  a  Venture,  and  with  tragedy  in  The  Disowned 
and  The  Actress  of  Padua.  It  invades  the  historical  plays,  notably 
William  Penn.  In  such  plays  as  The  Deformed  and  The  Sentinels  it 
is  at  its  best. 

All  of  the  extant  plays  are  in  prose  except  The  Deformed  which  con 
tains  both  prose  and  verse.  Considering  that  he  practiced  so  little 
in  that  form  his  blank  verse  possesses  a  high  degree  of  flexibility  and 
naturalness  and  is  not  without  beauty  and  distinction. 

Sensational  incident  and  broad  humor  mark  the  plays  as  a  whole. 
They  are  stories  of  passion,  terror,  or  lively  fun.  Subtle  distinctions 
of  character  or  shades  of  feeling  are  not  to  be  found.  Lavish  senti 
ment,  romantic  background,  conventional  characters,  cumbrous  and 
showy  prose  and  violent  action  are  the  most  striking  characteristics. 
•  The  fact  that  Smith  was  an  adaptor  and  translator  led  to  a  pre 
ponderance  of  foreign  themes.  Only  three  of  his  extant  plays  have 
native  settings.  He  was  not  without  invention,  however,  and  the 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  27 

majority  of  things  he  adapted  he  made  distinctively  his  own.  In  his 
best  productions  he  attains  a  natural  and  flexible  style  possessing 
grace  and  beauty;  his  characters  engage  our  interest  and  sympathy; 
and  his  plots  unfold  swiftly  and  with  dramatic  intensity. 

As  a  transition  playwright,  Smith  ties  the  former  period  of  imitation 
to  the  new  creative  school  of  dramatists  that  was  just  coming  into 
existence  in  Philadelphia.  Though  much  of  his  work  harks  back  to 
the  time  when  adaptation  was  the  customary  practice  among  our  play 
wrights,  his  best  productions,  notably  Caius  Harms,  point  forward 
to  the  first  great  creative  movement  in  our  drama.  This  was  the  period 
of  romantic  tragedy  which  produced  such  notable  contributions  to  our 
dramatic  literature  as  The  Gladiator  and  The  Broker  of  Bogota  by  Robert 
Montgomery  Bird;  Jack  Cade,  by  Robert  T.  Conrad;  and,  as  a  climax 
to  the  group,  Francesca  da  Rimini,  by  George  Henry  Boker. 


28  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 


III.  NOVELIST  AND  CRITIC 

Richard  Penn  Smith  did  not  confine  himself  to  drama  as  a  field  of 
literary  expression.  Beginning  with  contributions  to  The  Union  and 
The  Aurora,  he  continued  for  many  years  to  supply  the  various  maga 
zines  with  valuable  criticism  of  current  literature.  I  have  hitherto 
referred  to  his  biography  of  Francis  Hopkinson  in  1823.  Other  produc 
tions  were  The  Forsaken,  1831;  The  Actress  of  Padua,  a  collection  of 
stories,  1836;  Colonel  Crockett's  Exploits  and  Adventures  in  Texas,  a 
pseudo-autobiography,  1836;  and  a  History  of  Philadelphia,  about  1828. 
A  volume,  entitled  A  Tale  of  a  Tub,  has  been  attributed  to  him.  After 
his  death  a  volume,  entitled  The  Miscellanious  Works  of  the  Late  Richard 
Penn  Smith,  was  issued  by  his  son. 

The  Forsaken  is  Smith's  most  pretentious  literary  performance. 
It  is  his  only  long  novel  and  its  appearance  was  hailed  in  terms  of  loud 
praise  by  the  papers  generally.  The  author  tells  us  in  the  preface 
that  the  story  was  written  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  1825,  at  which 
time  he  contemplated  publishing  it  under  the  title  of  Paul  Gordon. 

The  scene  of  the  story  is  laid  in  and  about  Philadelphia  during  the 
Revolution,  and  presents  many  historic  incidents  enacted  during  that 
memorable  period.  The  Battle  of  Germantown,  the  starved  and 
freezing  soldiers  at  Valley  Forge,  the  occupation  of  Philadelphia  by  the 
British,  and  the  festivities  attending  the  departure  of  Sir  William  Howe 
are  some  of  the  historic  scenes  that  form  the  background  of  the  story. 

It  owes  something  to  Cooper  and  Scott  but  its  inspiration  seems  to 
come  more  particularly  from  the  sentimental  novel  of  intrigue  that 
so  greatly  influenced  our  earliest  novelists. 

A  brief  outline  of  the  complicated  plot  reveals  its  highly-wrought 
character.  The  story  centers  about  Jurian  Hartfield  and  two  girls, 
Miriam  Grey  and  Agatha  Morton,  between  whose  love  he  vacillates. 
Another  person  who  figures  very  importantly  is  Paul  Gordon,  a  high 
wayman,  and  the  villain  of  the  story. 

A  strange  mystery  hangs  about  the  birth  of  Jurian,  who  as  an  infant 
has  been  adopted  by  Captain  Swain  and  his  wife  and  reared  by  them. 
He  is  a  studious  lad  and,  while  at  the  Academy  of  Philadelphia,  forms 
an  intimate  friendship  with  Edward  Morton,  a  classmate.  Through 
his  friend  he  is  introduced  to  the  Mortons',  a  wealthy  tory  family  in 
Philadelphia,  and  a  close  intimacy  grows  up  between  him  and  Agatha, 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  29 

Squire  Morton's  daughter.  But  he  has  already  won  the  love  and  con 
fidence  of  Miriam,  the  daughter  of  Alice  Grey,  who  keeps  a  humble  inn 
in  Darby,  near  Philadelphia. 

Paul  Gordon  also  loves  Miriam.  He  goes  by  the  name  of  Jones 
and,  while  not  engaged  in  his  profession  of  highway  robbery,  is  an 
unoffending  servant  of  Squire  Morton.  In  order  to  free  himself  of 
his  rival,  he  falsely  leads  Jurian  to  believe  that  Miriam  has  been  dis 
loyal.  This  misunderstanding  between  Jurian  and  Miriam,  whom  he 
has  wronged,  eventually  leads  to  her  disaster.  Deserted  by  her  lover 
and  haunted  by  shame  and  fear,  she  leaves  home  and  wanders  from 
place  to  place  in  search  of  shelter,  which  is  denied  her,  until  she  finally 
gives  birth  to  a  dead  child,  of  which  Jurian  is  the  father.  She  is  found 
in  a  demented  state,  with  her  dead  babe  lying  in  the  snow,  and  is  put 
in  prison,  charged  with  infanticide. 

In  the  meantime  Jurian  has  learned  that  he  is  the  illegitimate  son 
of  Alice  Grey,  Miriam's  mother.  The  horror  that  he  and  Miriam  feel 
when  they  discover  that  they  are  brother  and  sister  is  unspeakable. 
But  it  is  found  that  she  is  not  the  daughter  of  Alice  Grey,  and  they  are 
spared  the  crime  of  incest. 

Meanwhile  Gordon  has  been  betrayed,  in  Delilah  fashion,  by  his 
mistress  and  handed  over  to  the  authorities.  He  and  Miriam  are 
lodged  in  the  same  prison,  and  both  are  convicted  and  sentenced  to 
death.  She  dies  on  the  day  of  execution  just  before  Jurian  arrives  with 
a  reprieve. 

Jurian  is  now  determined  to  leave  the  country,  in  which  he  has 
suffered  nothing  but  ill-fortune,  but  goes  for  a  last  sight  of  Agatha,  who 
has  been  all  this  time  repining  amid  the  overtures  of  British  officers. 
When  she  has  Jurian  in  her  arms  once  more  she  will  not  let  him  go 
until  her  father  has  consented  to  their  marriage. 

Such  a  brief  summary  of  the  story  must  of  necessity  omit  every 
thing  but  the  bare  outlines  and  gives  an  inadequate  sense  of  the  real 
quality  of  the  novel,  which  is  rich  in  humor  and  adventure.  While 
the  author  lacks  the  skill  of  Cooper  in  throwing  in  an  effective  back 
ground,  the  novel  is  very  effectually  woven  into  its  background  of 
life  in  Philadelphia.  Its  fighting  and  adventure  and  stilted  language 
is  somewhat  in  the  manner  of  Cooper.  As  is  often  the  case  in  such 
romances  the  best  characterization  is  of  the  minor  characters. 

A  genuine  and  spontaneous  flow  of  humor  enlivens  many  of  its 
chapters  and  marks  its  superiority  to  many  of  our  early  novels.  Take, 


30  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

for  example,  the  boasting  of  Corporal  Drone,  who  carefully  avoids 
all  danger,  or  the  ludicrous  mistakes  of  Rebecca,  an  elderly  spinster, 
who  is  continually  introducing  learned  topics  into  her  conversation, 
in  season  and  out  of  season.  Sometimes  there  is  a  happy  bit  of  charac 
terization  as  in  the  following  description  of  Mauns,  which  smacks  of 
Irving: 

"Mauns  never  relished  a  long  story  so  much  as  when  he  had  a 
meerschaum  in  his  mouth;  accordingly  Aoki,  who  was  a  very  Arab  in 
the  way  of  fiction,  no  sooner  commenced,  than  our  worthy  began  to 
fix  his  pipe,  and  called  for  a  coal  of  fire,  aware  that  Aoki's  story  was 
entitled  to  a  patient  hearing,  and  thus  prepared  he  could  have  set  out 
the  Arabial  Nights  without  interruption  other  than  that  which  might  be 
occasioned  by  knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and  replenishing  it 
with  tobacco. " 

Events  that  would  inspire  horror  were  legitimate  material  for  the 
novelist  of  this  period.  Horror  is  heaped  upon  horror  until  the  sen 
sitiveness  of  the  reader  is  dulled  and  little  power  of  sympathy  remains. 
Seduction,  duelling,  robbery,  war,  ingratitude:  such  are  the  materials 
that  go  into  the  making  of  the  story.  Sin  pursues  its  victims  relent 
lessly  to  the  end.  Vice,  in  the  person  of  Gordon,  is  punished.  Some 
dissatisfaction  was  felt  among  the  reviewers  at  the  sad  fate  of  Miriam 
alongside  the  rich  reward  of  Jurian,  whose  sins  were  more  culpable. 
So  great  a  dissimilarity  of  fates  did  not  satisfy  the  craving  for  poetic 
justice.  The  ending  does,  however,  conform  to  the  requirements  of 
such  a  sentimental  novel.  Miriam  finds  relief  from  her  grief  in  a  death 
which,  at  the  same  time,  leaves  Jurian  free  to  pursue  his  more  ambitious 
and  mature  love  for  Agatha. 

A  tendency  to  moralizing  sometimes  impedes  the  progress  of  the 
story,  but  on  the  whole  it  develops  with  rapidity  and  interest.  Occa 
sionally  the  author  lays  aside  his  bookish  style  and  writes  with  direct 
ness  and  forcefulness.  So  it  is  in  the  trial  scene  in  which  Miriam  is  con 
victed  of  concealing  the  murder  of  her  child.  Here  the  style,  held  in 
check  by  an  admirable  restraint,  is  simple,  condensed,  and  deeply 
pathetic. 

The  Actress  of  Padua,  in  addition  to  The  Daughter  and  The  Actress 
of  Padua  in  narrative  form,  contains  a  large  number  of  stories,  several 
of  which  had  previously  been  published  in  magazines.  A  number  of 
them  possess  a  graceful  and  pleasing  style  and  light  essay-like  quality 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  31 

that  well  repay  reading.     Others,  in  my  mind  less  excellent,  belong 
to  the  school  of  horror  that  Poe  was  soon  to  raise  to  distinction. 

To  mention  only  a  few  of  the  stories,  among  which  there  is  con 
siderable  diversity,  The  Campaigner's  Tale  tells  of  a  man  who  is  shot 
for  insubordination  in  the  army.  The  Last  of  the.  Tribe  portrays  an 
Indian  chief,  condemned  to  death  for  committing  murder — an  act  of 
justice  in  accordance  with  the  mandates  of  his  tribe.  Rather  than 
allow  himself  to  be  hanged  he  has  his  wives  poison  him  and  bury  him 
out  of  reach  of  the  interference  of  the  pale  faces.  Retribution,  The  Sea 
Voyage  and  The  Leper's  Confession  are  somewhat  in  the  manner  of 
Poe  and  Charles  Brockden  Brown,  though  they  ante-date  most  of  the 
work  of  the  former.  Further  relation  to  this  school  of  writing  is  shown 
by  The  Apparition,  which  is  about  a  ghost  that  turns  out  to  be  a  scare 
crow.  Other  stories  follow,  ranging  from  farce  in  A  Tale  of  Hard  Scrab 
ble,  and  broad  humor  in  The  Man  with  a  Nose,  which  is  reminiscent  of 
Irving,  to  melodrama  in  The  Emigrant's  Daughter,  a  tale  of  love,  mys 
tery,  and  crime. 

In  some  ways  the  most  remarkable  of  Smith's  literary  productions 
is  a  pseudo-autobiography,  entitled  Colonel  Crockett's  Exploits  and  Ad 
ventures  in  Texas.  It  purports  to  be  the  memoirs  of  David  Crockett, 
the  most  famous  frontiersman  of  his  day  who  was  killed  in  the  massacre  at 
the  Alamo,  1836,  the  same  year  in  which  the  book  was  written.  According 
to  the  sub-title  it  contains  a  full  account  of  his  journey  from  Tennessee 
to  the  Red  River  and  Natchitoches,  and  thence  across  Texas  to  San 
Antonio  and  includes  many  hair-breadth  escapes  along  with  a  topo 
graphical,  historical  and  political  view  of  Texas.  Fortunately  this 
promise  is  not  kept  and  the  Colonel  exercises  considerable  freedom  in 
his  chatty  and,  at  the  same  time,  racy  narrative.  He  is  depicted  as  a 
blustering  politician  of  Tennessee  who,  having  been  disappointed  in 
political  hopes,  decides  to  go  to  Texas.  He  gives  a  lively  account  of 
his  adventures,  interspersed  with  humorous  and  satiric  comments. 
There  is  a  breath  of  outdoor  life;  hunting,  fighting,  and  adventures 
with  Indians. 

It  gained  great  popularity  and,  in  1837,  was  reprinted  in  London 
where  it  was  received  favorably  by  the  critics.  The  London  Monthly 
Review  compared  it  to  Goldsmith  for  pathos  and  to  Swift  for  satire. 
Chamber's  Edinburgh  Journal,  completely  deceived  by  its  air  of  sin 
cerity,  quoted  from  it  as  the  best  account  of  the  then-existing  state  of 
affairs  in  Texas.  Fraser's  Magazine  devoted  eighteen  pages  to  a  re- 


32  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

view  commending  it  for  its  quaint  humor  and  graphic  description. 
Its  sly  roguery  was  thought  to  be  characteristic  of  American  manners. 

The  author  had  never  been  to  Texas  and  his  account  was  plainly 
exaggerated  for  humorous  effect.  Consequently  it  is  amusing  to  read 
the  following  comment  by  a  London  reviewer: 

"We  wish  we  had  a  few  more  such  books — or  rather,  indeed,  a 
good  many  more  such  books — not  occupied  with  romantic  nonsense, 
like  the  Bee-hunter  and  his  Kate  of  Nacogdoches — nor  travelling  into 
Texas,  or  anywhere  else  out  of  the  Union;  but  giving  us  sketches  by 
native  hands  of  the  actual  manner  in  which  they  manage  affairs  in 
the  United  States.  If  any  stranger  go  among  them  and  cannot  find 
everything  bright  and  golden,  if  he  see  a  single  speck  upon  the  white 
ness  of  their  garments,  an  outcry  is  raised  from  New  England  to  Florida, 
and  the  unhappy  author  is  assailed  by  a  hundred  angry  pens,  and  threa 
tened  with  a  hundred  angrier  cowhides."1 

The  rest  of  Smith's  work  has  less  significance  for  us  as  literature. 
The  History  of  Philadelphia  serves  to  indicate  the  versatility  of  its 
author.  It  deals  with  such  topics  as  the  topography,  commerce,  manu 
factures,  religious,  charitable  and  educational  institutions,  the  condition 
of  literature  and  kindred  subjects. 

A  satiric  essay,  entitled  A  Tale  of  a  Tub  published  in  Philadelphia 
in  1826,  purporting  to  be  by  Democritus  Americanus,  has  been  attributed 
to  Smith  though  I  have  found  no  confirmatory  evidence  of  his  author 
ship.  It  begins  as  a  satire  directed  against  phrenology.  From  this 
it  proceeds  to  attack  the  method  of  the  white  man  in  wronging  the 
Indian  out  of  his  land,  and  ends  with  a  protest  against  the  slave  traffic. 
It  seems  unlikely  that  Smith,  who  showed  little  concern  for  the  problems 
of  his  day,  should  have  written  in  such  an  outspoken,  satiric  vein.  The 
stories  and  sketches,  published  after  his  death,  are  similar  to  those  in 
The  Actress  of  Padua.  Generally  speaking,  they  are  more  uniformly 
moral  in  tone,  some  of  them  being  simply  moral  fables  or  allegories. 

Little  can  be  said  of  Smith  as  a  writer  of  tales  that  has  not  been 
already  said  of  him  as  a  playwright.  Sentiment  occupies  the  same 
dominant  position  as  in  the  plays.  Broad  humor  and  violent  action 
invade  the  stories  in  much  the  same  fashion.  There  are  even  more 
horrible  situations  and  there  is  a  greater  indulgence  in  moralizing. 

Very  much  of  the  diction  is  stilted  as  it  is  in  the  plays.  The  memoirs 
of  Colonel  Crockett,  dashed  off  in  imitation  of  an  uneducated  fron- 

1Fraser's  Magazine.  Vol.  16.  p.  610. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  33 

tiersman,  are  written  in  an  admirably  clear  and  vigorous  style,  unusual 
for  Smith.  A  sentence  in  the  preface  explains  this.  It  purports  to 
come  from  a  friend  of  Crockett,  who,  upon  editing  his  memoirs  sub 
sequent  to  his  death,  thus  apologizes  for  the  simple  language  of  his 
friend: 

"His  plain  and  unpolished  style  may  occasionally  offend  the  taste 
of  those  who  are  stickers  for  classic  refinement;  while  others  will  value 
it  for  that  frankness  and  sincerity  which  is  the  best  voucher  for  the 
truth  of  the  facts  he  relates. " 

It  is  unfortunate  that  Smith  did  not  see  fit  to  employ  such  a  plain 
and  unpolished  style  in  his  more  pretentious  and  serious  productions. 
For,  when  he  donned  the  garb  of  respectability,  he  seemed  to  feel  that 
good  taste  required  him  to  ornament  his  style.  Consequently  he 
loaded  his  sentences  with  unwieldy,  bookish  words  and  strove  for  im 
pressive,  high-sounding  phrases.  The  result  was  often  a  turgid  and 
pompous  style,  unsuitable  alike  for  narration  or  dialogue. 


THE 


DEFORMED, 


OR, 


WOMAN'S  TRIAL, 


A  PLAT, 


IN    FIVE    ACTS 


BY  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH, 

Avlhor  of  the  Disowned,  Eighth  of  January,  A  Wife  at  a  Venture, 
Quite  Correct,  Sentinel,  &c.  &c. 

As  performed  at  the  Chesnut  street  Theatre— Philadelphia, 


PHILADELPHIA    EDITION 

C.    ALEXANDER,   PR. 

1830. 


PREFACE 

A  large  portion  of  The  Deformed  was  written  as  early  as  the  year 
1825,  when  an  unsuccessful  attempt  was  made  to  introduce  it  upon  the 
stage.  Abo  at  a  year  ago,  at  the  request  of  a  favorite  performer,  I  was 
induced  to  revise  my  almost  forgotten  manuscript;  it  was  brought 
forward,  and  its  reception  was  such,  as  leaves  no  cause  to  regret  that 
I  followed  his  advice. — The  play  is  in  imitation  of  the  old  English  drama, 
and  the  outline  of  some  of  the  characters  may  be  found  in  a  coarse 
comedy,  by  Deckar.  Mr.  Dunlap,  of  New  York,  built  his  Italian 
Father  upon  the  same  comedy,  which  will  account  for  the  occasional 
similarity  between  this  production  and  that  excellent  drama.  The 
first  scene,  in  the  fourth  act,  is  modelled  upon  a  scene  in  the  Italian 
Father,  and  the  incident  of  Beraldo  seeking  the  Duke  at  the  palace,  to 
chastise  him  is  imitated  from  the  same  play.  Those  who  are  of  opinion 
that  I  have  fallen  short  of  my  original,  may  safely  proclaim  it  without 
fear  of  contradiction.  In  submitting  the  following  scenes  to  the  press, 
I  must  beg  the  reader  to  bear  in  mind  that  they  were  written  rather  for 
the  stage  than  for  the  closet,  and  that  many  passages  which  are  vapid 
in  perusal,  prove  effective  in  performance.  The  Deformed  is  intended 
as  an  acting  play,  and  as  such  its  merits  and  defects  are  to  be  tested. 

R.  P.  S. 

Philadelphia,  May  1,  1830. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  37 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Duke  of  Florence Mr.  Wemyss 

Trebatzo,  (a  Nobleman) Foot 

Adorni,  (the  Deformed) Maywood 

Beraldo,  (a  Profligate) Rowbotham 

Claudio Forbes 

Lodovico Porter 

Oriana,  (Duchess  of  Florence) Mrs.  Rowbotham 

Eugenia,  (Wife  of  Adorni) Roper 

Astrabel,  (Daughter  of  Trebatzo,  and  Wife  of  Beraldo) Greene 

Viola Miss  Waring 

Soldiers,  Senators,  Nobles,  &c.,  &c. 

ACT  I 

SCENE  1 
Outside  of  a  Palace.    Time — Sunrise. 

Enter  LODOVICO  and  CLAUDIO. — R.  H. 

Lodo.  Here's  a  morning,  Claudio,  to  tempt  Jove  from  his  Ganymede, 
but,  bright  as  it  is,  a  plague  of  this  early  rising,  say  I.  My  head  pays 
for  it.  By  my  knighthood,  if  I  were  but  Phoebus'  charioteer,  the 
duke  would  not  have  had  such  a  morning  as  this  for  his  merry  making. 
I  get  up  with  clouds  on  my  brow. 

Clau.  His  grace  is  early  abroad  to  celebrate  the  anniversary  of 
his  wedding. 

Lodo.  Men  rise  by  times  who  have  been  four  years  married,  signer, 
and  this  day  completes  that  term  of  his  probation.  I  have  reason  to 
remember  the  time,  for  on  that  day  the  wings  were  clipped  of  two  as 
brave  spirits  as  any  here  in  Florence.  They  could  never  soar  above 
the  earth  since.  I  mean  his  grace  and  poor  Beraldo. 

Clau.  What,  Beraldo,  whom  the  late  duke  married,  on  compulsion, 
to  count  Trebatzo's  daughter?  He  was  a  wild  blade,  was  he  not? 

Lodo.  Indeed  was  he,  but  that  marriage  tamed  him.  And  though 
he  was  then  high  in  favor  at  court,  he  has  been  travelling  crab  fashion 
ever  since.  O,  it's  a  straight  and  easy  course  from  the  top  of  the  hill 
to  the  bottom!  Poor  Beraldo,  once  fortune's  favorite — now  lies  in 


38  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

prison  condemned  to  death  for  a  mortal  wound  inflicted  on  one  of  the 
roaring  boys  in  a  duel. 

Claud.    What  was  the  cause  of  their  quarrel? 

Lodo.  Faith,  I  know  not,  but  'tis  said  they  found  it  at  the  bottom 
of  a  flaggon  of  wine.  Many  a  fight  lies  perdu  there,  signor,  and  Beraldo 
was  one  who  would  drink  to  the  dregs,  but  he  would  come  at  it.  The 
young  duke  once  was  of  the  same  stamp  also.  Many  a  roaring  set- 
to  have  we  had  together;  there  was  music  in  the  trio,  but  they  have 
changed  their  merry  note  since  their  marriage. 

Clau.  Here  comes  the  duchess  and  her  party.  She  is  indeed  a 
lovely  creature. 

Lodo.  So  was  Scipio's  wife  to  all  the  world,  while  he  alone  knew 
where  the  sandal  pinched  him. 

Clau.    I  have  hear'd  that  she's  of  a  jealous  temper. 

Lodo.  So  much  so  that  his  grace  cannot  stir  a  foot  from  her  girdle 
without  being  catechised.  He  has  no  more  freedom  than  her  hawk 
when  he  flies  hoodwinked  with  a  string  to  his  leg.  So  much  for  mat 
rimony. 

Enter  ORIANA,  VIOLA,  EUGENIA,  ADORNI  and  others. — R.  H. 
Ori.    Good  morning,  gentlemen.     The  sun  is  fairly  up.    Where 
tarries  his  grace,  the  duke?    We  should  have  been  in  the  field  an  hour 
since. 

(CLAUDIO  and  LODOVICO  court  VIOLA. 

Viola.    You  are  fond  of  falconry,  my  lady? 

Ori.  And  thou  too  girl,  and  hast,  I  perceive,  but  little  mercy  on  thy 
quarry. — Signor  Adorni,  sets  the  wind  right?  Shall  we  have  sport 
today? 

Ador.  I  know  not  my  lady.  Those  sports  that  depend  upon  the 
shifting  of  the  wind,  it  may  not  be  safe  to  promise. 

Ori.  What,  splenetic,  while  all  around  are  smiling!  Eugenia, 
look  to  thy  husband.  Thou'rt  to  blame,  girl,  for  suffering  him  to  go 
at  large  in  such  a  humour.  Lodovico,  seek  the  duke  and  hasten  his 
departure. 

(Exit  LODOVICO. — R.  H. 

Ador.     (Apart]  Her  scoff!    You  see  how  it  is,  Eugenia! 
Eug.    Mistake  her  not.    She  did  not  mean  to  wound  you.    Be 
more  cheerful. 

Enter  the  DUKE,  followed  by  LODOVICO. — R.  H. 
Duke.    I  fear  I  have  made  you  wait,  love. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  39 

Ori.    Your  grace  was  not  wont  to  be  the  last. 

Duke.    Now  then  to  horse,  and  let  us  spur  on  until  we  overtake 
time. 

Ori.    That  requires  swift  steeds,  my  lord.     (Going. 

Enter  ASTRABEL  with  a  paper,  meeting  them. — L.  H. 

Astra.  I  pray  your  grace's  pardon,  and  beseech  you  read  o'er  this 
wretched  paper. 

Duke.    I  am  in  haste;  prithee,  good  woman,  take  some  other  time. 

Astra.  Did'st  ever  know  a  time  unsuited  to  a  gracious  deed?  Read 
it  for  mercy's  sake. 

Duke.    I  am  in  haste. 

Astra.    So  are  the  hours  that  bear  Beraldo  to  the  scaffold. 

Duke.  Beraldo! — Go  on  before.  Lodovico  attend  the  duchess; 
I  will  but  read  and  follow. 

Lodo.    Put  on  yellow,  my  lady — that  letter's  from  a  mistress. 

Ori.    Oh!  sir,  you  cannot  make  me  jealous. 

Lodo.    True,  I  cannot,  but  perhaps  the  duke  may. 
(Exeunt  all  but  the  DUKE  and  ASTRABEL. — L.  H. 

Duke.    Are  you  Beraldo's  wife? 

Astra.    That  most  unfortunate  woman. 

Duke.  I  am  sorry  these  storms  have  fallen  upon  him.  The  remem 
brance  of  former  friendship  still  dwells  strongly  with  me,  and  if  it  appear 
that  in  fair  fight  he  hurt  his  adversary,  I  will  strain  the  law  to  save  his 
life.  Tomorrow  I  will  seek  your  house,  and  bring,  I  hope,  joyful  tidings. 
Direct  me  to  it. 

Astra.    I  will  enquire  here,  at  your  palace  gate. 

Duke.    Not  so. 

Astra.    In  truth,  our  dwelling  place  would  shame  your  highness. 

Duke.    So  poor,  too.    What  now? 

Enter  LODOVICO. — L.  H. 

Lodo.    My  lady  asks  if  your  grace  is  coming. 
Duke.    Ride  softly  on  before;  I'll  overtake  her. 
Lodo.    She  vows  by  hawk,  and  hound,  and  horse,  she  will  not  on  a 
foot  without  you. 

(Exit  LODOVICO. — L.  H. 

Duke.  I  come,  I  come.  Tomorrow  I  will  see  you.  Commend  me 
to  Beraldo.  (She  is  going.)  One  word  more.  You  are  count  Tre- 
batzo's  daughter? 

Astra.    I  once  did  call  him  father,  but  now,  such  rude  spots  of  shame 


40  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

stick  on  my  cheek,  that  he  knows  me  not  by  the  name  of  daughter. 

Duke.    Thou  wert  his  favorite  child — and  does  he  nothing  for  you? 

Astra.  All  he  should.  When  children  start  from  duty,  parents 
may  swerve  from  love.  He  nothing  does,  for  nothing  I  deserve. 

Duke.     Shall  I  endeavor  to  restore  you  to  his  favor? 

Astra.  Oh!  my  lord!  you  may  restore  my  husband  from  the  jaws 
of  death — but  to  restore  me  to  a  father's  love;  O!  impossible!  impossible! 

(Burst  into  tears.    Exit. — R.  H. 

Duke.  It  shall  be  put  to  trial,  notwithstanding.  She  is  fair  and 
seeming  virtuous.  How  is  this!  the  count 

Enter  TREBATZO.  L.  H. 

Trebatzo  in  the  vicinity  of  the  ducal  palace!  then  miracles  have  not  yet 
ceased. 

Treb.  'Tis  now  sometime  since  I  stood  in  the  sunshine  of  the  court, 
and  I  did  not  suppose  that  your  grace  would  remember  so  slovenly  an 
attendant  as  old  Trebatzo. 

Duke.  Oh!  sir,  our  friends  should  be  unto  us  as  our  jewels  are: 
valued  as  dearly,  being  locked  up  and  unseen,  as  when  we  wear  them. 

Treb.  Nobly  said.  It  does  my  old  heart  good  to  see  your  grace, 
at  least  once  in  a  twelve-month,  and  that  is  my  business  abroad  so  early. 

Duke.  And  trust  me,  I  rejoice  to  see  that  the  winter  of  life  has  not 
yet  chilled  your  blood.  The  sickle  of  time  hath  gone  over  you,  but  you 
are  still  the  same. 

Treb.  Fields  are  mown  down  and  stripped  bare,  and  yet  they  wear 
green  coats  again. 

Duke.  Scarce  can  I  read  the  stories  on  your  brow  which  age  has 
written  there. 

Treb.  My  brow  is  somewhat  furrowed,  my  lord,  but  my  heart 
shall  never  have  a  wrinkle  in  it,  so  long  as  I  can  cry  "hem"  with  a 
clear  voice,  and  look  in  the  face  of  my  fellow  creature  with  a  clear  con 
science. 

Duke.    You  are  a  happy  man,  sir! 

Treb.  Happy!  O!  yes.  I  am  not  covetous;  I  am  not  in  debt; 
have  fought  by  the  old  duke's  side,  but  I  have  never  cringed  at  his 
feet.  No  man  I  fear;  no  man  I  fee.  I  would  not  die  like  a  rich  man, 
to  carry  nothing  away,  save  a  winding  sheet;  but  as  a  just  man,  who 
leaves  an  unspotted  name  behind  him,  and  like  the  swan  goes  singing 
cheerfully  to  his  nest. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  41 

Duke.  I  repeat  it,  you  are  happy,  and  doubtless  make  those  around 
you  so.  Your  wife  and  children. 

Treb.     My  lord! — I  have  no  wife— no  children. 

Duke.    Is  your  wife  dead,  sir? 

Treb.  Yes!  but  she  is  still  with  me.  Here;  she's  here.  (Pointing 
to  his  heart.)  When  a  knave  and  a  fool  are  married,  they  walk  together 
like  bailiff  and  debtor;  and  when  death  comes  they  are  separated.— 
But  a  good  couple  are  never  parted. 

Duke.    You  had  a  daughter  too,  sir,  had  you  not? 

Treb.  O,  yes,  and  have  her  still.  Adorni's  wife. — Thou  knowest 
her.  The  pride  of  your  court;  the  solace  of  my  age. 

Duke.    I  meant  not  her.    A  younger  daughter,  if  my  memory  fails 

not. 

Treb.  (With  emotion)  O!  my  lord!  this  old  tree  had  another  branch, 
and  but  one  more  growing  out  of  it.  It  was  young,  it  was  fair,  it  was 
straight.  I  pruned  it  daily,  dressed  it  carefully,  kept  it  from  the  wind, 
helped  it  to  the  sun;  yet  for  all  my  skill  in  planting,  it  grew  crooked. 
The  fruit  it  bore  was  bitter.  I  hewed  it  down!  What's  become  of  it 
I  neither  know  nor  care. 

Duke.  Then  can  I  tell  you  what's  become  of  it. — That  branch  is 
withered. 

Treb.    It  was  so  long  ago. 

Duke.    Her  name,  I  think,  was  Astrabel.    Her  husband's— 
Treb.     Curse  on  him — name  him  not. 
Duke.     She  is  dead. 
Treb.    Ha!  dead! 

Duke.  Yes!  what  of  her  was  left,  not  worth  the  keeping,  e'en  in 
my  sight  was  thrown  into  the  grave.  She's  turned  to  earth. 

Treb.  Would  she  were  turned  to  heaven!  Peace  be  with  her; 
blessings  be  on  her  grave.  Dead!  Is  she  dead!  well,  well,  I  am  glad 
on't!  No  drunken  reveller  will  now  at  midnight  beat  at  her  doors. 
The  grave  will  protect  her  from  pollution — 'tis  well.  She  will  sleep 
now — and  in  her  grave,  sleep  all  my  shame  and  her  own,  and  all  my 
sorrows  and  all  her  sins. 

Duke.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  are  not  marble. 
Treb.  O,  sir!  this  is  the  first  tear  I  have  shed  since  she  deserted 
me.  'Tis  hot,  scalding  hot,  and  the  heaps  of  ice  about  my  heart,  by 
which  a  father's  love  was  frozen  up,  are  now  dissolved  to  tears.  My 
poor  misguided  child,  I  feel  too  late  that  I  am  still  thy  father.  But  she 
is  dead. 


42  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OP  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Duke.  Your  unnatural  rage  is  dead,  and  the  better  feelings  of  your 
heart  have  resumed  their  dominion.  Man  is  not  man  until  his  passion 
dies.  Your  daughter's  frailties  are  dead,  but  still  she  lives,  graced  with 
every  virtue,  while  poverty  and  despair  are  the  sole  companions  of  her 
fire-side. 

Treb.  She  lives  then?  I  am  sorry  that  I  wasted  tears  upon  a  wan 
ton!  but  my  handkerchief  shall  drink  them  up,  and  water  wash  out  all 
again.  Is  she  poor? 

Duke.    Trust  me,  she  is. 

Treb.  'Tis  well.  It  should  be  so.  'Tis  ever -thus  with  creatures 
of  her  trade. 

Duke.    When  did  you  see  her  last? 

Treb.  Seven  winters  have  wasted  away  since  my  doors  and  my  heart 
have  been  closed  against  her. 

Duke.    Your  doors,   but  not  your  heart. 

Treb.  Yes,  my  heart,  the  heart  she  trampled  on. — Nay,  plead  not 
for  her.  You  know  not  what  it  is  to  be  deserted  by  a  favorite  child. 

Duke.  To  crown  her  woes  her  husband  lies  in  jail  condemned  to 
death. 

Treb.  Let  him  hang!  One  half  of  her  infamy  will  then  be  out  of 
the  world.  Curse  on  him!  'Twas  he  who  first  taught  her  to  taste 
poison. 

Duke.    But  your  daughter. 

Treb.    She  is  no  longer  mine. 

Duke.    You  are  now  beyond  all  reason. 

Treb.  Then  I  am  a  beast.  Sir,  sir — I  had  rather  be  a  beast  and  not 
dishonor  my  creation,  than  be  a  doating,  fond,  indulgent  father,  and 
hug  vice  to  my  bosom,  because  it  was  of  my  own  begetting.  There 
is  one  who  may  forgive  her — I  trust  he  will — but  for  me — I  cannot, 
I  cannot. 

Duke.    Fare  you  well!    I  will  no  farther  touch  you. 

(Exit.—L.  H. 

Treb.  Alas,  my  girl!  art  you  poor?  Poverty  dwells  next  door  to 
despair; — but  there  is  but  a  thin  and  broken  wall  between  them.  Poor 
Astrabel!  I  have  kept  thee  from  my  heart  too  long;  but  thou  hast  now 
rushed  in  and  filled  it  to  the  overflowing.  Yes — I  will  go  to  her.  Shall 
a  silly  bird  peck  her  own  breast  to  nourish  her  young,  and  a  father  see 
his  child  starve? — That  were  hard.  The  pelican  does  it  and  shall  not 
I! — But  how  shall  it  be  done? — I  have  it. — She  shall  drink  of  my  wealth 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  43 

as  beggars  do  of  the  running  stream  by  the  highway,  nor  think  of  the 
source  whence  it  flows. 

(Exit. 

SCENE  2 

An  apartment  in  Adorni's  house. 
Enter  ADORNI  and  CLAUDIO. — L.  H. 
Adorni.     So  wealthy  and  so  beautiful,  you  say? 
Clau.    The  fairest  maid  in  Florence.    Trust  me,  sir, 
She  needs  no  gloss  that  fortune  can  bestow 
To  make  a  king  turn  suitor. — Such  a  one, 
That  were  another  planet  to  be  formed, 
Might  be  transplanted  to  the  firmament, 
And  outshine  Venus. 
Adorni.    Of  what  age,  good  Claudio? 
Clau.     Neither  a  bud,  nor  yet  a  flower  full  blown. 
Adorni.    All  things  are  beautiful! 
Clau.     How  now,  Adorni; 

May  not  a  man  commend  his  mistress'  charms 
Without  offence?    A  reigning  belle,  'tis  true, 
Might  have  some  cause  to  frown  at  what  I've  said — 
But  thou  hast  none.     Shake  off  this  peevish  humour. 
Thou  art  not  jealous  that  my  Viola 
Should  share  my  heart  with  thee?    What  ails  thee,  man? 
Adorni.    I  look  abroad,  and  all  that  strikes  mine  eye 
Is    beautiful.     E'en    things    inanimate 
That  were  created  but  to  live  a  day, 
And   die; — the   flower   we    tread   upon 
Betrays  the  labor  of  the  skilful  hand 
That  fashioned  it.     The  sky  is  glorious 
Passing  all  wonders.    The  birds  that  cleave  the  air, 
Are  beautiful  in  plumage  and  in  form. 
The  living  sea,  when  warring  with  the  sky, 
Making  its  weapons  of  the  works  of  man, 
That  float  upon  its  bosom,  is  sublime. 
The  countless  things  that  grow  beneath  its  surface, 
Though  made  for  man's  use,  seldom  meet  his  eye, 
Are  moulded  in  a  form  to  yield  delight 
When  brought  to  view.    The  principle  prevails, 


44  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

In  heaven,  earth,  air,  and  to  the  caves  of  ocean — 

All  things  are  beautiful! — 

Nature  has  lavish'd,  with  unsparing  hand, 

The  choicest  gifts  upon  her  meanest  works; — 

But,  in  her  boundless  prodigality, 

Not  one  has  fallen  here.    I — I  alone, 

Move  through  this  world  of   vast  variety, 

A  species  in  myself — disown'd  by  all! — 

As  'twere  a  foil  to  set  off  all  beside; — 

The  sport  of  nature  and  the  scoff  of  man. 

Clau.    Thou  wrongst  thyself  to  entertain  such  thoughts; — 
Nature  has  been  to  thee  most  prodigal. 
Thy  birth  is  noble,  and  thy  fortune  great; 
Thy  mind  accomplish'd  and  thy  taste  refin'd. 
Adorni.    True,  fortune  placed  me  on  a  giddy  height, 
That  all  might  gaze  and  wonder,  and  become, 
However  base,  contented  with  their  state. 
The  starving  beggar  as  he  craves  an  alms, 
Receives  it  from  my  hands — and  thanks  his  God, 
That  he  was  not  thus  stricken  and  deform'd: 
Returning  pity  for  my  charity. 
My  taste,  you  say's  refined.     Is  that  a  thing 
To  be  rejoic'd  at,  since  it  teaches  me 
The  grossness  of  my  own  deformity; 
To  hate  myself  and  execrate  my  race? 

Clau.    Out   on   you; — this   is   madness. 

Adorni.    My  mind's  accomplish'd — True,  with  patient  toil, 
I've  studied  night  and  day  to  make  my  own 
Th'  accumulated  wisdom  of  the  world; 
Until  the  grave  was  gaping  to  receive 
My  wasted  carcass.    Yes;  my  mind  has  been 
A  fire  that  feeds  on  all  within  its  reach, 
And  then  consumes  itself  for  lack  of  fuel. 
But  what  of  that!  who  estimates  the  mind 
In  this  base  world  where  earth  alone  can  prosper? 
Fools  with  fair  forms,  though  sterile  of  all  good, 
As  the  parch'd  desert,  mount  upon  our  necks 
And  are  proclaim'd  the  master  works  of  heav'n; 
While  those  who're  gifted  with  th'  ethereal  spark 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  45 

That  lights  them  to  explore  the  universe, 
Are  pass'd  unnoticed  as  the  senseless  clod 
If  cursed  with  such  deformity  as  mine. 
Clau.    All  do  not  judge  thus  blindly.    Thy  fair  wife 
Gave  proof  of  this  in  making  choice  of  thee. 
Ador.    Yes,  she  gave  proof  of  more  than  this  when  she 

Made  choice  of  me. 
Clau.    For  shame!    I  blush  for  you. 

Ador.    Twelve  months  have  scarcely  passed  since  she  was  priz'd 
The  treasure  of  the  court — the  cheering  sun 
That  gave  new  life  to  all  that  came  within 
Her  influence.    Ay,  from  my  lady's  page 
E'en  to  the  duke,  there  was  not  one  but  felt 
Most  honor'd  when  he  had  the  grace  to  touch 
Her  shoe-tie.    The  young  Duke  himself  ne'er  met  her 
Without  smiling  and  kissing  his  hand  to  her. 
All  eyes  were  turn'd  upon  her  as  she  mov'd 
Like  some  bright  comet  that  no  cloud  obscures 
While  all  the  firmament  is  hung  with  mourning. 
And  yet,  though  worshipp'd  thus,  she  fixed  on  me, 
As  if  I'd  been  Apollo  in  his  prime. 
And  why  was  this!  say,  was  it  natural? 
Clau.    Thou  art  resolved  to  prove  it  otherwise 

By  showing  what  thou  art. 
Ador.    Oh!  woman,  woman! 

Whom   gownsmen   sagely   call   the  greatest  good 
Bestow'd  on  man,  though  ancient  records  tell 
How  thy  first  fatal  act  'mid  Eden's  bloom 
Entail'd  damnation  on  the  heirs  of  heaven; — 
By  what  name  shall  I  call  thee! 
Clau.    Why  this  bitterness? 
Ador.    Because  I'm  married,  sir. 
Clau.    But  to  a  wife 

As  pure  and  spotless  as  the  virgin  snow 
That  falls  at  midnight,  when  the  frozen  moon 
Has  crystalliz'd  the  world. 

Ador.    Ah  say  you  so:  then  thou  shalt  try  her  virtue. 
Clau.    Fie,   fie! 


46  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Ador.    Thou  shalt. 

Clau.    Pray  fool  yourself  no  farther.     Twice  you've  sway'd  me 

To  this  disgraceful  office:  Twice  I've  wooed  her, 

And  by  the  bright  unspotted  cheek  of  truth 

She  is— 

Ador.    A  woman. 
Clau.     Chaste  as  Dian's  self. 

A  perfect  crystal   that  betrays   to  view 

The  slightest  flaw  within  it.     Ev'ry  act 

Is  open  as  the  mid-day  sun,  to  all, 

And  challenges  the  closest  scrutiny. 
Ador.    When  the  dark  Alisander1  leaf  looks  greenest 

The  sap  is  then  most  bitter. 
Clau.    Still  suspicious! 
Ador.    Look  on  me,  Claudio! — Can  it  be  possible 

She  loved  me  for  myself? 
Clau.    Will  nought  convince  you? 
Ador.    Try  her  again — but  once  more  I  beseech  you. 
Clau.    On  this  condition,  that  you  stand  ear  witness 

Unto  our   conference. 
Ador.    Peace,  peace,  she  comes. 

Lovely  enough  to  rouse  your  eloquence. 

(Retires.— R.  H. 
Enter  EUGENIA. — L.  H. 
Eug.    My  husband  is  not  here!    Your  pardon,  sir. — 

(Going 
Clau.    Nay,  do  not  shun  my  presence,  fair  Eugenia. 

Oh!  turn  again,  though  from  your  arched  brow 

You  pierce  me  with  the  arrows  of  disdain. 
Eug.    Have  I  not  twice  repell'd  th'  impetuous  storm 

Of  thy  incessant  rudeness?    Why  again 

Insult  my  feelings  and  degrade  thyself, 

By  giving  birth  to  thy  unholy  wishes? 

Adorni  is  thy  friend,  and  is  it  thus 

That  thou  repayest  him  the  love  he  bears  thee? 

Shame   on   thee,    Claudio. 
Clau.    His  cold  neglect 

Must  plead  forgiveness  for  my  tenderness. 

i  An  old  form  of  "Alexanders." 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  47 

Eug.    His  cold  neglect!     'Tis  false;  he  never  can 
Neglect  the  wife  that  lives  but  to  adore  him. 
And  if  he  should,  were  that  sufficient  cause 
That   she   neglect   herself? 

Clau.    Look  on  him,  Madam, 

Nature  has  been  so  niggard  in  her  gifts 
That  he  deserves  not,  surely,  to  engross 
Thy  matchless  beauty. 

Eug.    Thou  popinjay!    That  such  a  daw  should  peck  at 
And  chatter  of  the  bird  that  cleaves  the  heavens 
Is  monstrous.     "Look  on  him!" — Look  on  thyself! 
But  I  forbear. — My  eyes  were  open,  sir, 
When  I  made  choice  of  him,  and  I  preferr'd 
The  strong  wing'd  bird  of  Jove,  to  that  of  Juno. 
Thou'lt  say  'twas  strange,  and  wonder  at  my  taste. 
But  such  is  it,  and  I  shall  never  mend  it. 

Clau.    He  cannot  love  thee,  Madam,  as  I  love. — 
See,  on -my  knees — 

Eug.    False  man,  begone. 

To  parley  longer  with  a  wretch  so  base 
Would  lead  thee  to  suspect  I  might  become 
The  foul  thing  thou  dost  wish  me.     Hence,  I  say! 

(Exit.—L.  H. 

Ador.     (Coming  forward.)  She's  mine,  she's  mine,  heart  and  soul, 
Claudio ! 

A  shrewd  tongue,  faith. 
Clau.    Well,  sir,  what  think  you  now? 
Ador.    The  world  may  boast  a  woman  strictly  honest 

Without  the  course  of  nature  being  changed; 

And  my  fair  wife,  I'm  fully  satisfied 

Would  freeze  e'en  glowing  Phoebus  with  a  frown. 
Clau.    Heav'n  send  you  keep  in  this  mind,  at  least 

Till  the  moon  changes. 
Ador.    Ay,  good  Claudio; 

Till  the  sun  burns  out  and  the  stars  are  blotted 

From  the  face  of  heaven.    O,  she's  mine,  she's  mine! 
Clau.    A  husband  of  the  right  stamp. 

Well,  now  to  see  the  lovely  Viola, 

And  then,  to  woo  and  wed  her. 


48  THE  LITE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Ador.    Viola! — O,  I  remember  now. 

Was  she  not  of  the  Duke's  party  this  morning? 

Clau.    The  fairest  among  them. 

Ador.    Then  look  to  Lodovico  and  look  closely; 

Or  rather  break  your  chains. — A  painted  puppet, 
As  fickle  as  the  wanton  winds,  that  kiss 
Alike  the  carcass  and  the  blooming  rose! 

Clau.    Your  language  is  too  harsh. — Though  vain,  imprudent- 
She  is  most  strictly  virtuous. 

Ador.    As  Caesar's  wife! — Pshaw!    Claudio; — 

But  say  no  more,  thy  folly  plainly  shows 
The  greatest  curse  that  man  can  labor  under 
Is  the  strong  witchcraft  of  a  woman's  eyes. 
(Exeunt.— R.  H. 

END  OF  ACT  I 


ACT  II 

SCENE  1 

A   chamber  meanly  furnished. 

Enter  BERALDO. — L.  H. 

Ber.  At  length  I  am  in  my  own  castle  again,  as  free  as  nature  made 
me.  How  light  I  feel.  No  shackles  on  my  limbs  now.  The  heels  of 
Mercury  are  not  more  supple  than  my  own. — Why  Astrabel,  ho!  wife, 
where  art  thou? 

Enter  ASTRABEL. — R.  H. 

Astra.  Who  calls?— O,  my  Beraldo!  O,  my  husband!  (Runs 
into  his  arms)  Wert  thou  in  thy  grave  and  art  thou  here  again?  O, 
welcome,  welcome. 

Ber.    Art  glad  to  see  me,  Bell? 

Astra.  What  other  joy  have  I  on  earth,  Beraldo?  My  eyes  over 
flow  at  this  unlooked-for  meeting. 

Ber.  Come,  come,  no  tears,  wife.  Let  us  laugh  and  be  merry. 
JTis  not  for  us  to  draw  a  cloud  before  the  sunshine.  Cheer  up,  I  have 
had  enough  of  watery  eyes  in  the  prison.  Smile,  smile,  wife,  I  have 
friends  at  court,  I  am  free,  I  shall  soar,  I  shall  fly  high  again,  fly  high! 

Astra.    Beraldo! 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  49 

Ber.    Is  it  possible  that  these  limbs  ever  danced  in  fetters!    That 
is  buoyant  spirit  was  ever  dampened  by  the  atmosphere  of  a  prison! 
hat  instead  of  nature's  beauteous  works  I  was  doomed  to  behold  misery 
and  despair,  and  the  only  sound  that  greeted  my  ears  the  groans  of  the 
wretched,  the  clank  of  their  shackles,  and  the  grating  of  bolts  and 
bars!    But,  that  is  past.     I  breathe  pure  air  again,  and  it  is  to  my  soul 
as  refreshing  as  wine,  and  I  leap  forth  into  the  world  a  new  born  man. 
O,  'twas  a  glorious  world  till  laws  were  made  to  curse  it,  and  hood 
winked  Justice  took  her  daily  rounds  to  trample  on  the  feeble. 

Astra.    Beraldo. 

Ber.    What  sayest  thou,  sweet  one? 

Astra.  Goulds t  thou  not  make  a  mirror  of  thy  prison  and  therein 
view  the  unsightly  scars  thy  name  and  fortunes  bear. 

Ber.    Faith,  Bell,  I  need  no  glass  to  see  them. 

Astra.    Then  in  viewing  mend  them. 

Ber.  A  plague! — Have  I  turned  my  back  upon  a  jail  for  this! — 
Postpone  thy  lecture  to  some  fitter  time.  Dampen  not  my  wings  now. 
I  shall  soar  again.  I  shall  fly  high. — 0,  for  the  mad  rogues— the  roaring 
boys!  I  shall  soon  be  among  you  again. 

Astra.    Thou  dost  not  hear  me. 

Ber.  Yes  faith,  I  do.— (Not  attending  to  her.)  Ha!  ha!  Their 
greeting  will  pour  new  life  into  my  veins,  and  the  streets  shall  re-echo 
at  midnight  that  Beraldo  is  no  longer  in  prison. — I  wonder  how  the 
inside  of  a  tavern  looks! 

Astra.  Thou  knowest  too  well  Beraldo,  and  too  dearly  hast  thou 
paid  for  thy  knowledge,  with  the  loss  of  wealth,  and  time,  and  fair 
fame.  O,  my  husband,  could'st  thou  be  content  with  our  humble  home, 
thou  wouldst  here  find  a  friend  more  faithful  than  those  who  pledge 
themselves  in  drunken  oaths,  and  praise  thee  for  thy  failings. 

Ber.  I  do  believe  thee;  and  I  protest  to  thee  I  will  turn  over  a  new 
leaf,  but  let  me  fly  once  more  that  I  may  feel  that  I  am  free.  (Knock 
ing.)  Who's  there? 

Astra.     Some  one  knocks  at  the  door. 

Ber.  I  will  be  porter.  I  will  stand  at  mine  own  door,  and  let  the 
world  see  that  a  jail  cannot  hold  a  brave  spirit. 

(Exit.—L.  H. 

Astra.  How  wild  is  his  behaviour!  O,  I  fear,  the  vices  that  were 
but  in  the  seed,  have  taken  root  and  ripened  in  the  prison.  O !  my  poor 
husband! — But,  come  what  will  I  must  abide  all  storms.  When  with 


50  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

full  sail  he  floated  along  the  sunny  stream,  he  loved  me,  and  now  that 
the  tempest  has  risen  and  his  fortunes  are  wrecked,  I'll  cling  unto  the 
ruin  and  act  the  pilot  until  the  barque  goes  down,  and  gladly  will  I 
perish  with  it. 

Enter  BERALDO  and  TREBATZO,  the  latter  disguised. — L.  H. 

Ber.     Come  in  I  pray  you.    Would  you  speak  with  me,  good  fellow? 

Treb.     Is  your  name   signor   Beraldo? 

Ber.  My  name  is  signor  Beraldo,  and  the  time  has  been  I  was 
proud  of  the  name. 

Treb.    You  had  reason.    Is  this  gentlewoman  your  wife,  sir? 

Ber.    That  gentlewoman  is  my  wife,  sir. 

Treb.    And  you  were  once  proud  of  your  wife,  also. 

Ber.  And  still  am,  by  heaven!  and  with  greater  reason  than  ever. 
Fellow,  what  meanest  thou? 

Treb.  (Aside.)  The  mother's  own  face! — May  the  destinies  spin 
a  long  and  even  thread  of  both  your  lives. — I  have  not  forgot  that  face, 
though  the  beauty  of  her  cheek  hath,  like  the  moon,  suffered  strange 
eclipses  since  I  last  beheld  it. — (Crosses  to  Astrabel.)  Gentlewoman,  the 
last  man  I  served  was  your  father. 

Astra.  My  father!  any  tongue  that  sounds  his  name  speaks  music 
to  my  heart.  Welcome  old  man,  thou  good  old  man!  How  does  my 
father?  Has  he  health?  does  he  think  of  me?  does  he  speak  of  me? 
but  alas!  I  have  so  much  shamed  him,  so  deeply  wounded  him,  that  I 
scarce  dare  speak  the  tender  name  of  father. 

Treb.    I   can   speak   no   more. 

Ber.    How  now,  old  lad,  what — dost  cry? 

Astra.    This  is  strange. 

Treb.  I  am  troubled  with  weak  eyes,  nought  else.  O,  sir,  I  am  a 
merry  old  fellow,  but  for  these  weak  eyes. 

Ber.  No  matter.  Let  them  weep  themselves  away  an  they  will, 
for  at  thy  time  of  life,  thou  canst  see  but  little  in  this  world  worth  look 
ing  after. 

Treb.  True,  true,  and  that  little  makes  them  weep  the  more. — 
Signor,  I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Ber.    Well,  what  is  it,  grey  beard? 

Treb.    I  have  a  mind  to  serve  your  worship. 

Ber.  To  serve  me!  Good  fellow,  I  do  not  think  that  will  serve 
your  purpose.  Not  that  I  am  above  being  served;  not  so,  but  truly 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  51 

my  fortune  is  somewhat  like  my  garment,  out  at  elbows.     What  is 
thy  name? 

Treb.     Pacheco. 

Ber.  I  have  seen  the  time  I  could  have  entertained  you — the  time 
may  come  again — but  now — even  the  plucked  eagle  must  crawl,  Pacheco. 

Treb.  Look  you,  signor,  you  think  I  want  money.  'Tis  not  so. 
True,  I  am  old,  and  know,  that  when  all  other  sins  are  crippled  within 
us  and  hobble  upon  crutches,  covetousness  is  then  but  in  her  youthful 
lustihood.  But  'tis  not  so  with  me.  My  white  head  is  no  inn  for 
such  a  gossip.  I  do  not  want  money,  sir,  thanks  to  my  old  master; 
though  we  did  fall  out  at  last,  I  would  do  him  justice. 

Astra.     Didst  love  thy  master! 

Treb.  As  myself,  lady,  and  for  the  love  I  bear  him  I  wish  to  serve 
you  until  such  time  as  he  shall  be  reconciled. 

Ber.  Damnation!  The  love  you  bear  Trebatzo  is  no  passport  to 
cross  my  door.  Begone! 

Astra.  Beraldo,  look  at  his  grey  hairs. — Remember  he  is  poor  and 
friendless. 

Ber.    Right,  my  gentle  Bell.    Pacheco,  stay. 

Treb.  Though  friendless,  I  have  some  gold  saved  from  my  former 
service,  which  I  would  put  in  your  worship's  hands. 

Ber.  Ha,  gold! — A  good  old  fellow,  faith!  Thou  shalt  serve  me, 
and  as  for  your  money — 

Astra.  Do  not  take  it.  Load  not  the  back  already  broken;  take 
not  the  crutch  from  the  decrepid. 

Ber.    Never  fear,  Bell.    Thou  knowest  me  better. 

Treb.    Look  you,  Sir,  here  it  is — some  twenty  pieces. 
(Draws  out  purse. 

Ber.    Keep  it  thyself,  then  thou  art  sure  it's  safe. 

Treb.  Safe!  an'  it  were  ten  thousand  ducats,  your  worship  should 
be  my  cash  keeper.  (Gives  him  the  purse.}  I  have  had  a  greater  treasure 
in  as  bad  hands. — (Looking  at  Astrabel. 

Ber.  You  force  me  to  it;  but  thy  money  shall  breed,  Pacheco — it 
shall  not  be  idle. — And  so  my  father-in-law  turned  you  out  of  doors. — 
And  thinkest  thou  he  will  receive  you  again? 

Treb.    Most  certain. 

Ber.  Thou  credulous  old  man! — Not  on  this  side  the  grave.  Would 
he  were  there. 

Astra.  O!  Say  not  so,  Beraldo!  Kind  heaven  preserve  his  life 
and  mine,  until  I  again  deserve,  and  receive  his  blessing. 


52  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

(TREBATZO  turns  away  and  wipes  his  eyes. 

Ber.  His  blessings! — An  unforgiving,  unfeeling  villain!  as  proud  as 
Lucifer  and  merciless  as  hell.  We  may  expect  the  devil  to  turn  monk, 
when  he  bestows  a  blessing. 

Astra.    For  shame!    This  from  you,  Beraldo? 

Treb.  Thou  speakest  the  truth,  else  he  would  not  suffer  his  own 
child  ta  pine  away  in  want,  exposed  to  all  the  temptations  that  are 
thrown  in  the  pathway  of  the  wretched.  He  is,  indeed,  an  unrelenting 
scoundrel. 

Astra.  Thou  villain,  curb  thy  licentious  tongue.  Is  this  the  love 
thou  bearest  thy  master? — Out,  thou  dissembling  Judas. 

Ber.    He  speaks  the  truth.    Thy  father  is — 

Astra.  (Interrupting  him.)  All  that  a  father  should  be — at  least, 
to  such  a  child  as  I  have  been. 

Treb.     Mine   own   girl   yet.     (Aside.} 

Astra.  (To  BERALDO.)  Art  not  ashamed  to  strike  an  absent  man? 
Art  not  ashamed  to  let  this  vile  dog  bark  and  bite  my  father  thus? — 
I  will  not  bear  it. — (To  TREBATZO.)  Out  of  my  doors,  base  slave. 

Ber.  Thy  doors! — Come  hither,  Pacheco.  Heed  not  her  anger, 
it  is  me  thou  serv'st.  Come  hither. — Call  you  him  a  father  that  deserts 
his  child,  and  for  the  first  fault  too?  And  look  you,  such  a  child,  as 
earth  cannot  produce  her  paragon! — Out  on  such  fathers!  (Exit. — 
R.  H. 

Astra.  Ah!  me!  how  is  my  poor  heart  shook  and  torn  with  passion. 
(Sees  TREBATZO.)  How  now,  sir! 

Treb.  This  is  strange,  mistress!  Does  my  master  often  dye  your 
brow  of  this  sad  color? 

Astra.  Fellow,  begone,  for  thou  art  as  a  spider  in  my  eye,  swol'n 
with  rank  poison.  To  wrong  men  absent  is  to  spurn  the  dead — and  so 
didst  thou,  thy  aged  master — my  honored  father. 

Treb.  Thou  hast  but  little  reason  to  take  his  part.  He  has  deserted 
thee. 

Astra.     'Tis  false!  'twas  I  deserted  him! 

Treb.    He  says  you  are  a — 

Astra.    Let  him  say  what  he  will — he  is  my  father. 

Treb.    And  dost  thou  not  return  his  railings? 

Astra.  Yes — with  blessings.  How  else  should  an  offending  child 
return  a  father's  railings.  When  for  the  earth's  offence,  heaven's 
fiery  bolts  are  driven  downward  through  the  marbled  vault,  is  it  fit 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  53 

repentant  earth  should  shoot  again  those  darts  against  high  heaven? 

Treb.  She  carries  mine  own  mind,  my  flesh,  my  blood,  my  bone. 
(Aside.)  In  truth,  mistress,  the  squibs  that  I  threw  against  my  good  old 
master,  were  but  to  try  how  your  husband  loved  such  crackers;  but 
it's  well  known  by  those  who  know  me,  that  I  love  your  father  as  my 
self.  Say  then  thou  wilt  forgive  me. 

Astra.  O,  he  that  loves  my  father,  need  not  fear  resentment  in 
this  bosom.  That  virtue  quenches  it. 

Treb.     Mine  own  girl  still.     (Aside.) 

Astra.  O!  that  my  father  knew  me,  and  all  that  I've  endured — 
knew  my  heart  and  all  its  thoughts,  and  all  its  longings !  He  then  would 
know,  that  though  a  star  may  shoot,  it  cannot  fall. 

(Exit.—R.  H. 

Treb.    He  shall  know  it — he  does  know  it.    Bless  you,  God  bless 


you! 


(Exit.—L.  H. 


SCENE  2 

The  street  before  Viola's  house. 
Enter  BERALDO.—  R.  H. 

Ber.  How  nimbly  the  air  plays!  How  refreshing!  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  leap  from  my  skin  with  joy.  What  a  bright  world  it  is  we  live 
in!  and  how  few  make  the  discovery  until  they  have  lost  sight  of  it. 
How  happy  all  things  appear,  and  I  among  the  happiest,  though  not 
worth  the  scrapings  of  a  beggar's  wallet.  But  still  I  can  walk  abroad 
and  dance  without  being  tripped  by  my  shackles;  and  there's  much  in 
that,  to  a  man  who  has  passed  his  probation  in  prison.  Ha!  here  comes 
one  of  the  roaring  boys — a  fellow  who  will  reap  the  enjoyment  of  ten 
lives,  while  your  plodder  is  studying  to  find  out  what  there  is  worth 
living  for. 

Enter  LODOVICO.— L.  H. 

Ha!  mad  rogue,  by  this  hand  I'm  glad  to  see  thee. 

Lodo.    Thou  art  familiar,  fellow,  stand  aside. 

Ber.  Ha!  how  is  this!  have  I  so  soon  grown  out  of  your  remem 
brance? 

Lodo.  So  soon!  I  have  not  seen  a  doublet  of  that  cut  these  ten 
years. 

Ber.    Look  on  me  well,  Lodovico.    True,  they  have  clipped  my 


54  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

wings,  but  there  is  'that  within,  tells  me  I  shall  fly  high  again. 

Lodo.    Beraldo,  by  this  light. 

Ber.    Ay;  your  old  friend,  and  sound  at  core  as  ever. 

Lodo.    Thou'rt  welcome  to  fresh  air  again.    I'  faith  thou'rt  welcome. 

Ber.  Fresh  air  is  now  my  only  heritage,  but  'tis  a  blessed  and  a 
peerless  one.  Didst  ever  breathe  the  foul  air  of  a  prison? 

Lodo.    Never. 

Ber.  Then  die  on  a  dunghill  first.  O,  damn  the  jail!  Shun  it  as  a 
pestilence!  Damn  the  jail! 

Lodo.    Amen,  with  all  my  heart.     How  is  thy  fortune  now? 

Ber.  In  truth,  so  beggarly  that  if  'twere  not  for  the  boundless 
joy  I  feel  in  viewing  the  glorious  works  that  the  master  hand  has  scat 
tered,  I  should  sicken,  even  to  death,  Lodovico,  in  my  collision  with 
my  fellow  man.  But  no  matter — tell  me,  stand  the  gaming  houses 
and  taverns  in  the  old  quarter,  and  the  bona  robas,2  boy,  do  they  look 
as  fresh  and  blooming  as  ever? 

Lodo.  When  the  paint  is  fresh  put  on  they  are  much  the  same,  but 
like  old  houses,  they  require  constant  repair  to  look  well.  We  shall 
meet  again. 

Ber.     Whither  in  such  haste? 

Lodo.  The  old  sport,  Beraldo.  This  shell  contains  the  brightest 
pearl  in  Florence  (Pointing  to  the  house)  and  I  must  dive  after  it. 

Ber.    Dive!  that's  not  the  true  way  to  win  her. 

Lodo.    How  then    mad  rogue? 

Ber.  Fly  high,  fly  high,  and  leave  diving  to  leaden  spirits.  In, 
in  and  prosper. 

(Exit  LODOVICO  into  the  house. — R.  H. 

More  gallants  coming  and  their  cloaks  of  the  court  fashion  too! 
This  is  life  now! — such  once  was  I!  but  now!  no  matter;  I  shall  yet  be 
new  fledged  and  bear  up  again. 

Enter  ADORNI  and  CLAUDIO. — L.  H. 

Ador.  You  are  resolved  to  see  her! 

Clau.  Once  again. 

Ador.  But  once! — how  often  have  you  sworn  that  once  should  be 
the  last? 

Clau.  In  truth  I've  kept  no  calendar  but  daily  I  think  for  six 

months.  Do  not  laugh. 

2  Courtesans. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  55 

A  dor.     Well    follow  thy  own  wishes. 
(CLAUDIO  knocks. 

Ber.  Ha!  Signor  Adorni!  Give  me  welcome  brother;  I  am  among 
you  again.  How  does  thy  fair  wife  my  sister?  To  the  quick!  You 
see  I  am  not  unmindful  of  kindred  ties  though  while  I  lay  in  prison 
your  hearts  were  too  tender  to  witness  the  sorrows  of  poor  Astrabel 
and  therefore  you  kept  aloof  from  her.  Kind  souls! 

Ador.    Out  prodigal! 

Ber.  Nay,  incubus,  turn  not  thy  proud  back  on  me,  though  thy 
face  be  enough  to  make  a  dog  bark  to  look  upon,  I  can  brook  its  fierce 
ness — never  fear.  And  this  is  old  Trebatzo's  favourite!  Ha!  ha! 

Ador.    Scum  of  the  earth,  you  are  beneath  my  notice. 

Ber.  Fly  high  Adorni!  at  thy  old  tricks  still!  Bear  up,  and  fly 
high.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Ador.  (Walks  up  to  CLAUDIO  who  is  still  knocking  at  VIOLA'S  door.) 
Knock  louder,  Claudio,  you  are  not  heard.  (Sarcastically. 

Clau.     She  knows  my  knock,  and  will  not  let  me  enter. 

Ador.  Never  give  over  man:  knock,  knock  again.  Perhaps  she 
does  not  hear. — (Laughing. 

Clau.    The  plague  light  on  her. 

Enter  LODOVICO  from  the  house. — R.  H. 
Lodo.    You  are  too  noisy,  sir,  and  have  mistaken  the  house. 
Clau.    Pish,  I  could  find  it  blindfold.    You  are  the  new  lackey, 
I  presume,  and  know  not  yet  your  duty.    Lead  the  way;  thou'rt  young 
enough  to  learn. 

Lodo.    And  old  enough  to  teach  you  better  manners.     (Draws. 
Clau.    Have  at  you  for  a  lesson  then.     (Draws. 

VIOLA  appears  at  the  window. 
Viola.    As  you  are  gentleman,  I  beg  you  hold. 

This  brawl  will  ruin  me.     Good  Claudio — 
Adorni — hear  me — gentlemen. 
Ber.    Put  up  your  spits  boys,  this  is  not  the  place 
For  such  amusement.    Fie;  put  up  your  spits; 
The  lady  is  alarmed. 
Clau.    We'll  find  a  time. 

Lodo.    Pray  name  it,  lest  your  courage  should  grow  cold. 
Clau.    No  time  is  like  the  present,  and  the  place 
Beyond   the  eastern  gate.        (Viola  retires. 
Lodo.    We  there  shall  meet  then. 


56  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Ber.  This  is  life;  my  little  man  of  mettle!  It  makes  the  blood 
stir,  and  tells  us  we  are  not  made  of  wood  and  stone.  O!  Lodovico! 
I  now  feel  that  I  live  again.  Bear  up,  boy,  and  fly  high,  fly  high. 

(Exeunt  LODOVICO  and  BERALDO. — R.  H. 
Clau.     Go  on  Adorni   to  the  place  of  meeting, 

I  will  but  change  my  rapier  and  then  follow: 
I  dare  not  trust  the  temper  of  this  blade. 
Ador.    A  pleasant  visit  this,  sir,  to  your  mistress! 
Clau.    For  ever  cynical! 
Ador.     Invite  her  to  the  field, 

That  she  may  see  how  gracefully  you  fight 
To  win  a  prize  so  treasur'd. 
Clau.    Trifler  away,  I'll  presently  o'ertake  you. 

(Exit  ADORNI. — L.  H. 
Enter  VIOLA  from  the  house. 

Viola.     Claudio. 

Clau.    Who  calls? 

Viola.    She  who  was  not  wont 

To  call  that  name  a  second  time.     How  now? 
Clau.    I've  been  your  dupe  too  long;  at  length  the  net 
That  folly  wove  around  me  is  destroy'd, 
And  thou,  false  siren,  now  mayest  sing  thy  strains 
For  other  ears. 
Viola.     Can  this  be  Claudio? 
Clau.    You  well  may  question  it. 
Viola.    Out  on  that  frown,  it  ill  becomes  your  brow, 

And  spoils  its  beauty.  Let  me  smooth  it  pray. 
Clau.  'Tis  not  within  thy  power.  Give  over  trifling. 
Viola.  Thou  art  resolved  then  thus  to  scowl  through  life, 

And  look  as  fierce  as  Hector  before  Troy? 
Clau.    I  am  resolved  to  be  thy  fool  no  longer, 
For  thou  hast  ceased  to  be  my  Viola, 
The  modest,  the  immaculate;  and  some  devil 
Has  ta'en  the  form  of  that  unblemish'd  beauty, 
To   do  a  fearful  mischief. 
Viola.    I  also 

Have  been  deceiv'd;  thou'rt  not  the  man  I  thought  thee. 
Clau.    In  what,  pray,  am  I  changed? 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  57 

Viola.    I  did  suppose  the  gallant  Claudio 

Would  have  defied  the  devil  and  all  his  works, 

But  lo!  he's  frighten'd  at  a  petticoat, 

And  dreads  the  witchcraft  in  it.     Is  this  manly? 

Clau.    Have  I  not  cause? 

Viola.    Why  none  that  I'm  aware  of. 

My  garment  is  quite  harmless,  I  assure  you. 

Clau.    Lodovico ! 

Viola.    Why  this  is  worse  and  worse! 

It  is  a  man  then  who  has  roused  your  fears, 

And  not  a  devil  in  a  female  shape? 

And  such  a  man  too! — Now,  upon  my  life, 

If  this  strange  temper  holds,  I  soon  shall  hear 

That  thou  art  jealous  of  my  waiting  maid 

For  pinning  of  my  kerchief. 

Clau.    Faith  I  should  be 

If  that  same  maid  were  dress'd  in  hose  and  doublet. 

Viola.    Yet,  as  she  is,  thou  hast  as  much  to  dread 
From  her  as  from  Lodovico. — For  shame! 
Art  yet  to  learn,  that  there  are  human  things 
That  were  intended  for  no  earthly  use 
But  to  cut  capers  at  a  lady's  elbow, 
Dangle  her  fan,  sometimes  draw  off  her  glove, 
And  run  her  various  errands  that  are  deem'd 
Too  trifling  for  a  lackey  to  attend  to? — 
And  whose  ambition  never  soars  above 
Holding   her  farthingale   on  holidays, 
To  keep  it  from  the  dust!— Out  on  thee,  sir! 
Jealous  of  such  a  thing!    Thou'lt  next  become 
Jealous  of  my  lap  dog. 

Clau.    I've  been  to  blame. 

Say,  can  you  pardon  me? 

Viola.    Perhaps  I  may, 

Provided  thou  wilt  let  me  smooth  that  brow, 
Nor  call  my  power  in  question. 

Clau.    O  Viola! 

Had  I  less  faith  than  e'en  a  heathen  hath, 
I  could  not  doubt  it. 


58  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Viola.     So,  thy  note  is  changing! — 

But  saidst  thou  not,  thou  wert  resolved  to  be 
My  fool  no  longer? 

Clau.     Said  I  so?     Impossible! — 

As  long  as  I  may  be  a  fool  with  thee 
I  envy  not  philosophers  their  wisdom. 

Viola.    I  thought  you  would  recant.     Come  in  a  moment, 
I've  much  to  say.    You  hesitate!    I  see  how  'tis! 
You  fear  some  devil  has  assum'd  my  form, 
Or  that  there's  witchcraft  in  my  petticoat. 
Dismiss  those  fears,  for  trust  me,  Claudio, 
Whate'er  you  think,  I'm  still  thy  Viola — 
You  will  not  come  then? 

Clau.     Though  thou  wert  the  devil, 

In  that  fair  form,  thus  tempted,  for  my  soul, 
I  could  not  do  otherwise  than  follow  thee. 

(Exeunt  into  the  house. 

SCENE  3 

A  garden  attached  to  Adorni's  house. 
Enter  EUGENIA. — R.  H. 

Bug.    What  can  detain  my  husband  from  his  home! 
'Twas  morning  when  he  left  me,  and  the  clock 
Has  told  the  hour  of  four,  and  yet  he  comes  not. 
I  languish  in  his  absence,  and  I  feel 
How  cheerless  life  would  be  but  for  his  love. 

Enter  CLAUDIO. — L.  H. 
Clau.    Not  yet  return'd,  and  no  Vhere  to  be  found! 

My  mind  is  on  the  rack.    The  time  is  past. 

They  must  have  fought.    How  has  Adorni  sped! 

That  thought  will  drive  me  frantic.    Fool,  O,  fool! 

Must  I  forever  be  the  dupe  of  woman; 

Forfeit  my  honour  for  a  rosy  lip, 

And  dream  of  bliss  e'en  while  the  valued  life 

Of  my  best  friend's  at  stake! — (Seeing  Eugenia. 

I  do  beseech  you. — 

Eug.    What,  here  again!    Where  is  your  sense  of  shame? 
Clau.    I  seek  your  husband,   lady. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  59 

Eug.    He's  from  home, 

And  'till  he  does  return  pray  seek  him  elsewhere.     (Going. 
Clau.    I  cannot  bear  the  weight  of  thy  displeasure, 

And  at  this  time  when  I  have  sunk  beneath 

My  own  esteem,  thy  sharp  reproofs  are  venom' d. 

Believe  me  when  I  swear  by  truth  itself, 

And  by   the   honour   of   unblemish'd   man, 

The  folly  that  offended  thy  chaste  ear 

Was  but  a  trial  of  thy  saint  like  virtue. 
Eug.    And  wherefore?    Speak. 
Clau.    Your  husband. 
Eug.    Ah!  what  of  him? 
Clau.    I  fear  I've  gone  too  far.    Your  pardon,  lady. 

I  wish  but  to  regain  your  fair  opinion. 

Believe  me,  I'm  your  friend. 
Eug.    I  see  it  all! 

Adorni  doubts  my  truth,  and  from  his  doubts 

Arose  this  guilty  trial.    Wretched  man! 

He  little  knows  the  grief  and  suffering 

His  folly  causes. 
Clau.    Grieve  not  injured  one; 

I  know  his  nature,  and  I  shall  not  fail 

In  rooting  up  this  hemlock  from  his  heart 

That  poisons  all  thy  peace. 
Eug.    No  more  of  that; — 

I  ne'er  complain'd  of  his  harsh  treatment,  sir, 

Nor  should  a  sigh  e'en  now  have  scap'd  my  lips, 

But  that  I  know  you  share  his  inmost  thoughts. 

He  is  my  husband,  and  with  him,  my  love 

Alone  must  plead  my  cause;  another  tongue 
Would  speak  but  gall  to  poison  all  our  hopes, 
And  make  the  breach  more  deadly.    Promise,  sir, 
Thou  wilt  not  breathe  a  single  word  between  us, 
Lest  it  disturb  his  peace  and  taint  my  fame. 
Enter  ADORNI,  LODOVICO,  and  BERALDO  behind.— L.  H. — They  pause 

on  seeing  the  characters  in  front. 
Clau.    My  honor  and  my  hand  upon  it  lady. 

Excuse  me  if  I  swear  by  this  fair  book. 

(Kisses  her  hand. 
Ador.    Ha!  so  close!  poison  of  toads  betwixt  ye. 


60  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Clau.     Command  me  as  you  list,  for  I'll  devote 
My  life  unto  your  service. 

(Kisses  her  hand  and  exit. — L.  H. 

Ador.     (rushes  forward.)  Traitor,  libidinous  traitor! 

Was  it  for  this  he  shunn'd  the  fight?    O!  devil!— 
Was  it  for  this! — unhand  me,  gentlemen; 
I'll  tear  him  piecemeal!    Off — I'll  have  his  heart — 
His  treacherous  heart.    O,  that  these  bony  hands 
Were  clutch'd  around  his  heart. 

(Sinks  into  their  arms  exhausted. 

Lodo.    What  means  all  this? 

Ber.    Thou  hast  lived  at  court  to  little  purpose,  not  to  understand 
natural  philosophy,  such  as  is  taught  in  the  shambles.    Nothing  more. 

Eug.    My  noble  lord. 

A  dor.    Hence  from  my  sight,  thou  venom  to  my  eyes! 
Would  I  could  look  thee  dead,  or  with  a  frown 
Might   crush   thy   prostituted   form   to   atoms, 
That  the  four  winds  might  hurl  them  through  the  world 
And  spread  disease  that  kills  whate'er  it  touches. 

Ber.    Nay,  bear  your  wrongs,  sir,  with  more  fortitude. 

Ador.     She  was  unspotted  as  an  angel's  garment — 

But  now  begrim'd  and  foul— O!  God!  O!  God!— 
He  that  depends  on  woman,  steers  in  a 
Stormy  night  without  a  compass. — Look  there! — 
That  guilt  so  damnable  should  lurk  beneath 
A  look  so  innocent!    Look  there!    Look  there! 

Eug.    Alas!    Adorni,  has  it  come  to  this! — (Swoons. 

Lodo.    Look  to  the  lady. 

Ador.    Hang  her,  let  her  die, 

With  all  her  countless  sins  upon  her  head. 

Ber.    You  are  too  violent.    Bear  her  gently  in. 

(Exit  LODOVICO  supporting  EUGENIA. — L.  H. 

And  there's  Trebatzo's  pride!    The  milk  white  dove 
Whose  presence  made  my  Astrabel  a  raven! — 
Ha!  ha!  ha!    What  a  blind  world  it  is!    A  fine  world  faith, 
For  drabs  and  knaves  to  dance  in.     'Tis  but  to  hide 
The  cloven  foot  and  devils  pass  for  angels! 
Ador.    Where  is  the  viper! — Give  him  to  my  rage — 
The  pois'nous  reptile  with  the  painted  skin 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  61 

That  crept  into  my  bosom. — Where  is  he? — 
O!  that  my  heel  were  now  upon  his  head, 
I'd  crush,  and  prove,  the  ancient  enmity 
'Twixt  man  and  serpent  is  not  yet  extinct. — 
Serpent!  damned  serpent! 

Exeunt. — L.  H. 

SCENE  4 

An  apartment  in  Beraldo's  house. 
Enter  TREBATZO  and  ASTRABEL. 

Treb.  Can  you  not  sing  that  strain  again,  lady?  Its  melancholy 
soothed  me. 

Astra.  My  heart  is  out  of  tune,  Pacheco.  O!  my  sister!  unhappy 
sister! 

Treb.  Waste  not  thy  breath  in  naming  her.  Think  not  of  her, 
lady.  A  wanton!  Cast  her  off!  Forget  her!  Would  I  could  do  the 
same. 

Astra.  Shame  on  thee,  old  man,  to  speak  thus  of  thy  master's 
daughter. — 0!  my  father!  I  smote  thee  to  the  heart,  but  she  was  thy 
favourite  child,  and  her  falling  off,  I  fear,  will  go  nigh  to  kill  thee. 

Treb.    Thou  speakest  truly;  it  does  go  nigh  to  kill  him. 

Enter  BERALDO. — L.  H. 

Ber.  What  infernal  stuff  are  these  dice  made  of!  Of  the  parings 
of  the  devil's  corns,  I  think,  that  they  run  thus  damnably.  If  any 
handicraft  man  is  ever  suffered  to  keep  shop  in  hell,  it  will  be  a  dice 
maker,  for  he  is  able  to  undo  more  souls  than  Lucifer  himself.  Ah! 
my  gentle  Bell,  how  dost  thou? 

Astra.    Sad,  sad,  Beraldo. 

Ber.     Nay,  hang  sorrow.     Have  you  any  money? 

Astra.    Alas!  I  have  none. 

Ber.  Must  have  money,  Bell;  must  have  money.  Must  have  a  new 
cloak  and  rapier,  and  things  fitting  a  gentleman.  Do  you  hear,  wench, 
shall  I  walk  like  a  rogue,  in  my  hose  and  doublet,  and  a  crabtree  cudgel 
in  my  hand,  and  you  swim  in  your  silks  and  satins.  'Twould  never 
do,  Bell!  Must  have  money. 

Treb.    Why  sir,  you  would  not  sell  the  gown  from  your  wife's  back? 

Ber.  p!  its  summer,  its  summer,  white  pate,  and  your  only  fashion 
for  a  woman,  now,  is  to  be  light,  to  be  light.  I  still  have  an  eye  to  the 


62  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

fashion  of  the  court,  though  no  longer  admitted  there.  Ask  Adorni's 
wife  whether  I  speak  not  to  the  letter.  O!  there's  a  dainty  dish  for 
the  devil  to  dine  off. 

Astra.  Nay,  Beraldo,  lend  not  your  tongue  to  scoff  at  her;  there 
will  be  enough  ready  to  do  that  office. 

Ber.  True,  true,  my  gentle  Bell!  we  found  them  ever  ready.  There 
is  as  much  rejoicing  in  this  world  upon  the  falling  off  of  a  sinner,  as 
we  are  told  there  is  in  the  next  over  his  repentance. 

Treb.     Blame  not  the  world,  but  the  sinner. 

Ber.  Damn  the  world,  damn  the  world! — a  painted  carcass — a 
fair  outside  while  it  breeds  corruption  within!  Look  there,  Pacheco. 
(pointing  to  Astrabel,)  for  one  fault — and  that  a  venial  error,  have  the 
avenues  to  mercy  in  this  world  been  barred  up,  and  though  fit  to  hold 
converse  with  the  sainted,  she  is  pronounced  too  impure  even  to  be 
looked  upon,  by  the  fly  blown  immaculates,  as  rank  as  carrion  itself. 
Damn  the  world,  damn  the  world. 

Astra.    Nay   Beraldo,    fly   not   out   thus. 

Ber.  And  what  have  I  done,  that  a  mark  should  be  put  upon  my 
front  to  caution  those  who  regard  the  world's  opinion  to  shun  me? 
I  was  once  followed,  and  sought  after,  and  the  proudest  were, proud 
to  be  seen  with  me.  But  now,  a  consuming  leprosy  could  not  keep 
them  at  greater  distance.  And  why  is  this?  I  walk  abroad,  and  I 
see  them  cross  the  streets  as  I  approach,  affecting  not  to  see  me.  Though 
I  despise  them,  I  cannot  but  feel  this  slight.  A  stone  would  feel  it; 
however,  I  show  no  more  feeling  than  a  stone. 

Treb.    The   right   stuff!— the   right   stuff! 

Ber.  The  ways  of  honest  livelihood  are  closed  against  me,  and 
there  is  nothing  for  me  to  hope  from  my  fellow  man.  By  heaven! 
it  requires  but  little  more  to  make  me  cast  off  all  restraint — but  little 
more,  and  I  leap  the  wall  and  play  such  wild  pranks  on  t'other  side, 
as  shall  make  the  world  stare.  I  am  desperate. 

Astra.    Speak  not  thus  wildly. 

Ber.  How  now,  in  tears  Bell!  come,  dry  your  eyes,  I  have  caused 
you  to  shed  too  many.  But  for  me  your  life  had  been  all  sunshine. 

Astra.    Think  not  of  that. 

Ber.  I  do  think  of  it;  I  must  think  of  it;  and  then  to  see  to  what 
I  have  reduced  you! — Beggary  and  shame! — The  being  I  once  adored. 
Damn  the  world!  Damn  the  world! — still  say  I. 

Astra.    Beraldo!  no  more,  no  more! 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  63 

/ 

Ber.  And  old  Trebatzo! — to  suffer  his  unoffending  child  to  live 
thus — exposed  to  contumely — to  sicken  for  want  of  bread — the  only 
one  to  solace  her  broken  heart,  a  profligate,  a  vagabond.  And  yet  such 
a  father  can  lay  his  head  on  his  pillow,  and  sleep  o 'nights,  and  ere  he 
closes  his  eyes,  ask  for  mercy.  How  dare  he  open  his  lips  to  ask  for 
mercy? 

Treb.    O!  Beraldo! 

Ber.    What  sayest  thou? 

Treb.    How  dare  he  open  his  lips  to  ask  for  mercy? 

Ber.  Thou  little  knowest,  old  man,  what  I've  endured.  We  had 
a  child,  the  link  that  bound  my  better  feelings  to  that  injured  one. 
That  child  was  to  us  as  a  star  at  midnight.  O!  how  brightly  it  shone, 
but  only  for  a  season,  and  then  disappeared. 

Astra.     Beraldo,  recall  not  the  memory  of  those  sorrows. 

Ber.  It  fell  sick  and  died  for  the  want  of  those  comforts  which  her 
unforgiving  father  lavishes  on  his  hounds.  I  beheld  it  wasting  away, 
day  by  day,  and  yet  had  not  the  means  to  check  the  disease.  When  its 
sufferings  were  over,  we  were  alone — no  friend  came  near  us;  and  on  the 
third  day  after,  I  suppressed  my  grief,  went  forth  into  the  street,  and 
begged  the  means  of  purchasing  it  a  grave. 

Treb.     Gracious  Heaven!     I  knew  not  this.     (Aside. 

Ber.  The  poor  thing  was  a  stranger  in  this  world,  and  he  had  a 
stranger's  burial.  His  parents  were  his  only  mourners.  No  hymn 
was  chanted,  and  no  mass  was  said.  It  was  night  as  we  returned.  We 
passed  in  front  of  her  father's  palace;  it  was  illuminated,  and  the  sounds 
of  revelry  were  heard  from  within.  We  stood  for  a  moment  and  lis 
tened  to  their  merriment. — The  feelings  of  that  moment  I  shall  carry 
to  the  grave!  I  pressed  that  mourner  to  my  broken  heart,  and  we 
silently  returned  to  our  deserted  home. 

Astra.    O!  my  husband! 

Ber.  Wipe  away  thy  tears,  Bell;  dry  thine  eyes,  we  shall  yet  bear 
up  and  fly  high,  in  spite  of  the  world.  But  brush  my  cloak  and  fix  my 
ruff,  wench,  for  I  must  to  the  senate  house,  and  thou  wouldst  not  have 
me  appear  otherwise  than  as  a  gentleman  in  such  a  place. 

Astra.    To  the  senate  house? 

Ber.  Ay;  thou  hast  heard  that  Adorni  sues  to  be  divorced  from  your 
sister,  and  I  am  called  upon  to  testify  to  what  I  know. 

Astra.    And  what  dost  thou  know? 


64  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Ber.  That  Vulcan's  wife  might  have  passed  for  Dian  had  she  been 
prudent.  Come  along  Pacheco;  thou  wilt  be  present  for  thy  old  mas 
ter's  sake. 

Treb.    For  my  own  sake,  I  would  fain  be  absent. 

Ber.    Come  along.    Rare  sport  for  old  Trebatzo.    Ha!  old  lad! 

Astra.     Remember,  she  is  my  sister. 

Ber.  Years  have  elapsed  since  she  ceased  to  remember  it. — Come, 
come,  Pacheco.  (Exeunt.) 

END  OF  ACT  II 

ACT  III 

SCENE  1 
The  Senate  Chamber. 

The  DUKE  and  Senators,  ADORNI,    CLAUDIO,    LODOVICO,    BERALDO, 
TREBATZO,  still  disguised,  EUGENIA  and  spectators,  discovered. 

Duke.     Call  the  accused  to  the  bar. 

Clau.    We  appear  with  reverence  to  the  presence. 

Duke.    Signer  Adorni,  you  have  leave  to  speak. 

Ador.    I  stand  before  you,  sir,  o'erwhelm'd  with  shame, 
To  tell  the  world  how  lowely  I  am  fallen; 
A  thing  for  apes  to  gibe  at. — I  affirm — 
Nay,  the  great  multitude  wi thou tft  can  witness, 
That  since  my  fatal  marriage  with  that  frail  one, 
My  love   expanded   to   such  boundless  height, 
That  malice  could  not  reach  it. — I  entreat 
Your  patience.     Sorrow   chokes   my  utterance. 

Ber.    He  bears  it  heavily. 

Treb.    The  shaft's  in  his  heart. 

Ador.    And  for  this  man — this  false  and  erring  man! 
The  friendship  that  I  bore  him  was  proverbial. 
So  far  my  blindfold  confidence  extended, 
That  in  himself  I  was  identified, 
And  felt  more  pride  when  honor  crown'd  his  brows 
Than  had  its  laurel'd  wreath  encircl'd  mine. 

Duke.    And  what  from  this  infer  you? 

Ador.    That  'twas  base — 

Base  in  the  depth  of  baseness,  for  this  friend 
So  honor'd,  and  this  frail  one,  so  belov'd, 
To  work  my  ruin. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  65 

Eug.    O,  my  husband!  O! 
Ador.    And  at  a  time  my  weapon  was  engaged 
To  save  his  honor,  he  was  killing  mine 
He  fixed  a  quarrel  on  me  for  his  purpose; 
And  then,  O!  shame  to  manhood!  stole  away, 
Leaving  his  name  and  my  life  in  the  hands 
Of    those   he'd   basely   wrong'd. 
Clau.    Hear  me,  great  sir. 

Must  I  with  patience  bear  this  bold-faced  insult — 
Have  my  fair  name  traduc'd  before  the  world, 
Without  as  much  of  reason  as  we  find 
In  the  wild  ravings  of  a  lunatic? 
Duke.    The  proof,  my  lord,  the  proof. 
Ador.    I  will  appeal  to  signer  Lodovico; 

Beraldo,   too. 

Duke.    We  wait  your  testimony. 
Lod.    It  grieves  me  much  that  I  am  call'd  upon 
To  speak  against  the  gallant  Claudio. 
But  yesterday,  for  some  imagin'd  wrong, 
He  challeng'd  me  to  mortal  fight,  yet  came  not. 
We  staid  beyond  the  hour,  and  still  he  came  not. 
Believing  some  mistake,  of  time  or  place, 
The  cause  of  this  strange  bearing  in  a  man 
Noted  for  true  courage,  we  sought  him  at 
The  Count  Adorni's  house.     We  enter 'd  hastily — 
I  would  I  had  been  absent — and  surpris'd 
The  parties,  here  accus'd,  in  close  discourse; 
Their  palms  were  knit  together. 
Duke.    Well,  what  passed? 
Lod.     I  saw  him  press  her  hand  unto  his  lips; 

No  more  than  this. 
Ador.    No  more!    As  this  were  nothing! 

A  kiss  in  private,  and  no  harm  intended! 

Is  it  in  nature?    If  their  thoughts  were  pure, 

Why  thus  in  secret  did  he  steal  a  joy 

The  public  eye  would  scowl  at?    No,  my  lord, 

The  burning  kiss  of  shame  was  printed  on  her, 

Though  that  dull  clod  pronounces  it  a  trifle. 

I  speak  not  now  in  passion,  but  to  men — 

To  upright  and  to  honorable  men, 


66  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

And  put  the  question  home  to  all  who  hear  me. 
Is  there  among  you  one,  can  make  my  wrongs 
His  own,  and  say,  the  charge  preferr'd  is  groundless? 
One,  would  have  lock'd  suspicion  in  his  heart 
And  sat  him  down  content,  until  his  shame 
Shone  on  his  forehead?    If  there  be,  good  Heavens! 
I'd  rather  be  a  creature  born  to  bear 
The  worst  oppression  man  could  heap  upon  me 
Than  share  the  nature  of  a  thing  so  base. 
No  more  than  this! 

Ber.    That  argument  comes  home. 

This  will  be  wormwood,  boy,  to  old  Trebatzo. 

Treb.    Bitter,  ay,  bitter  as  the  aloe  tree. 

Duke.    And   what   say'st   thou,    Beraldo? 

Ber.     How  now,  grey  beard — ?(To   Trebatzo,  apart.) 

Treb.    She  is  the  sister  of  thy  injured  wife; 

And  though  her  wretched  father's  darling  child, 
Let  not  thy  malice  aim  a  blow  at  him 
By  crushing  her.     Remember!     (Apart.) 

Ber.    Yes,  I  do     (Pointing  above.) 

And,  wild  as  I  have  been,  have  ne'er  forgotten. 
I  can  fly  high,  old  man,  but  swerve  not  from 
The  path  of  truth. 

Treb.    Is  this  the  man  I  spurn'd!     (Aside.) 

Duke.    Say  on,  Beraldo. 

Ber.    I  do  avouch  what  Lodovico  depos'd, 
And  nothing  more. 

Treb.    I  breathe  again. 

Clau.    If  'twere  not  waste  of  breath  for  one  accus'd 
To  speak  in  his  defence — for  all  eyes  view 
In  the  same  light  th'  accus'd  and  criminal! 
I  would  beseech  permission  to  address 
Your  grace  and  the  senate. 

Duke.    'Tis  freely  granted. 

Clau.    With  def'rence  to  the  presence,  I  acknowledge 
The  favor  granted,  and  your  patience  crave 
While  I  a  plain  and  simple  tale  relate, 
Which  you  will  credit  for  that  wrong'd  one's  sake. 
'Tis  true,  this  jealous  man  was  once  my  friend, 
And  did  exalt  me  in  his  fair  opinion; 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  67 

And  I  look'd  on  him  as  the  greatest  good 

That  fortune  gave  me. — 

'Tis  also  true,  that  to  his  valiant  sword 

My  honor  and  his  life  were  yesterday 

Most  wantonly  entrusted.     I  confess  it. 

But  that  I  slmnn'd  the  meeting  purposely, 

From  cowardice,  or  to  endanger  him, 

I  trust  there  is  not  one  among  my  hearers, 

So  base  as  to  imagine — but  the  cause! 

'Tis  now  of  little  moment  to  relate 

The  arts  made  use  of  to  detain  me  from 

The  meeting  where  my  reputation  bled 

To  death.     'Tis  past!  on  that  score  I  am  silent. 

But  that  I  ever  wrong'd  Adorni's  honor, 

Or  that  the  love  I  bear  his  injur'd  wife 

Is  such  a  brother's  bosom  need  recoil  from, 

I  do  deny;  proclaim  aloud  'tis  false, 

With  such  a  voice  that  all  the  earth  may  hear, 

And  heaven  itself  re-echo,  innocent! 
Duke.    You  are  too  bold. 
Clau.    Not  more  so  than  becomes  me. 

I  feel  my  wrongs,  and  as  an  injur'd  man 

Give  my  soul  vent. 
Ber.    Bear  up  and  fly  high,  boy, 

Though  they  load  thy  back  to  breaking! 
Clau.    Adorni,  if  thy  cheeks  are  not  of  brass, 

Unchangeable  as  marble,  hide  thy  face, 

While  I  proclaim  thy  folly  to  the  world. 

I  here  am  put  to  trial  for  a  crime 

That  owes  its  birth  to  thy  distemper'd  mind, 

Which  has  been  fed  on  jealousy,  till  grown 

So  sickly,   that  e'en  shadows  vanquish  it. 

Since  thou  wilt  have  it  so,  I  here  confess 

That  I  have  woo'd  thy  wife. 
Ador.    He  doth  confess. 
Duke.    How  say  you — woo'd  her? 
Clau.    Yes,  three  several  times. 
Ber.    The  truth  is  coming. 
Clau.    At  his  bidding,  sir. 
Ber.    Ha!  mark  you  that? 


68  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Treb.     I  do. 

Clau.    And  for  the  sake  of  friendship,  ill-requited, 

Endur'd  the  censure  of  insulted  virtue. 

Now,  upon  this,  his  jealousy  infers 

I  could  not  hold  the  chalice  to  my  lips, 

But  I  must  drink  the  poison. 
Duke.     Frail  excuse! 

And  most  improbable.  Your  witnesses. 
Clau.  The  case  is  such  as  could  admit  of  none. 
Ador.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Duke.    What  farther  wouldst  thou  urge,  count  Claudio? 
Clau.     Nothing. 

Duke.    And  you,  unhappy  lady? 
Eug.    Why  should  I  speak,  since  even  he  forsakes  me. 

(Pointing  to  Adorni. 
Duke.    In  that  we  are  the  kinsman  of  Adorni, 

And  still  retain  a  sense  of  deep  regard 

For  that  fair  being — 
Ador.    Blisters  on  his  tongue! 
Duke.    That  we  may  not  appear  in  judgment  partial, 

The  senate  will  decide  upon  the  case. 
Ber.    You  tremble. 
Treb.    I  am  old  and  feeble! 
Clau.     (To  Adorni.)  Thou  weak,  misguided  man, 

Behold  her  tears,  each  one  of  which  would  grace 

A  monarch's  funeral;  and  these  are  shed — 

Doth  not  the  knowledge  melt  thee — for  thy  lost  virtue. 

(Pointing  at  EUGENIA. 
Duke.    There  is  but  one  opinion  in  the  senate: 

The  accus'd  are  guilty. 
Ador.    Ha!  ha!  ha! 
Eug.    'Tis  done. 
Treb.    Break!  break!  break! 

Ber.    Bear  up,  Pacheco,  or  I  shall  weep  too.    But  why  should  I 
weep  for  the  shame  of  others?    Rather  rejoice! 
Ador.    Ha!  ha!  ha! 
Ber.    Hear  the  damned  hedgehog! — 

Thou  good  old  man,  thou  sheddest  far  more  tears 
Than  e'er  her  flinty-hearted  father  shed 
For  Astrabel. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  69 

Treb.    Less,   less,   but   they're  more  bitter. 
Duke.    Stand  forth,  Count  Claudio.     'Tis  thus  decreed: 
In  that  you  have  thus  grossly,  sir,  dishonor'd 
Even  our  blood  itself,  the  law  inflicts 
The  punishment  of  death  upon  your  trespass; 
But  by  your  worth,  of  more  antiquity, 
That  death  is  blotted  out,  and  in  its  place 
Banishment   writ;    perpetual   banishment. 
And  further,  if  within  our  city's  precincts, 
After  the  setting  of  yon  glorious  sun, 
Thou  shalt  be  seen,  thy  head  is  forfeited. 
Clau.    Down  to  the  earth  I  thank  the  clemency 
That  gives  me  life  and  injuries  enough 
To  make  me  curse  the  wisdom  of  the  senate. 
And  so  farewell.     Farewell,  my  noble  Lords! 
Ere  I  depart  I'll  leave  a  legacy 
Not  to  be  found  among  the  rarest  treasures 
That  decorate  this  hall.    I  mean,  the  truth! 
Ye  are,  'tis  said,  the  delegates  of  Justice, 
And  wear  her  sacred  form;  and  so  ye  do! 
Justice  is  blind— therein  the  likeness  holds: 
Justice  is  deaf— ye  are  not  prone  to  hear: 
And  Justice  bids  th'  uplifted  sword  to  strike, 
And  so  do  ye;  for  were  a  saint,  in  all 
His  glory  crown'd,  brought  to  this  bar,  accus'd, 
He'd  seem'd  begrim'd  unto  his  judges*  eyes; 
Ye'd  close  each  narrow  passage  to  your  hearts; 
Without  remorse  command  the  sword  to  strike, 
Nor  heed  the  shriek  of  Mercy  as  it  fell. 
And  so  farewell  to  Justice  and  to  Florence. 

(Exit.—L.  H. 

Duke.  Unto  you,  madam. — As  your  husband  sues 
To  be  divorced,  we  deem  it  right  to  grant  it. 
Your  rank  and  seeming  sorrow  shall  prevent 
All  other  punishment. 

Eug.    I  bow  to  your  decree.    Farewell,  Adorni, 
And  may  thy  days  be  fruitful  in  delights 
As  Eden  in  choice  flowers.    I  ask  but  this — 
When  my  fair  name  is  thrown  among  the  crowd, 


70  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Stain'd  with  the  poison  of  corrupted  minds, 
Give  me  a  sigh,  and  struggle  to  forget 
That  this  fond  heart  ne'er  harbour 'd  yet  a  thought 
Unworthy  of  the  matchless  love  it  bore  you. 

(Crosses  to  TREBATZO. 
Duke.    Break  up  the  court. 

(Exit  DUKE,  senators  and  spectators. — R.  H. 
Ador.     Break  up  my  heart — the  storm  is  in  my  bosom. 
Eug.     (Recognizing   her  father.}  Ah!  what   means   this! 
Treb.    I  could  not  stay  away,  yet  would  not  be  the  gaze  of  the 
common  herd.    O!  Eugenia!  thou  wast  the  child  of  mine  age!  my 
soul's  darling!  and  thou  hast  brought  my  grey  hairs  with  shame  and 
sorrow  to  the  grave. 
Eug.    My  father! 

Treb.  Breathe  not  that  name! — not  here — not  here;  go  on,  I'll 
follow  you. 

Exit  L.  H. — EUGENIA  following. 

Ber.  Ha!  why  standest  thou  there  like  the  Nazarite  of  old,  who, 
to  crush  his  foes,  dragged  down  ruin  on  himself !  Ho !  awake !  Beraldo 
calls!  He  whom  thou  has  scoffed  at  in  thy  pride,  calls  on  thee  to  join 
with  him  and  damn  the  world;  for  now  thou  canst  feel  how  the  scorn  of 
thy  fellow  beings  gnaws  at  the  soul.  Ho!  Adorni.  Think  of  poor 
Astrabel,  whom  thou  has  slighted  as  a  common  harlot,  and  then  think 
of  thy  own  wife.  Thou  spider-venomous  toad,  I  know  has  mingled 
wormwood  with  old  Trebatzo's  bitter  hate  for  me;  but  I  forgive  thee, 
for  thou  hast  mixed  a  more  bitter  cup  for  thy  own  lips,  and  hast 
already  quaffed  it.  Remember,  none  fly  so  high  but  the  curse  of  the 
world  may  reach  them.  (Exit. — L.  H. 

Adorni.    How  still  it  is!  still  as  the  grave!  all  gone! 
No  human  being  near  me!  all  desert 
Th'  accurst  of  heav'n!    The  fearful  bolt  hath  fallen. 
The  only  link  that  bound  me  to  my  race 
Is  riven;  the  only  one  that  smiled  on  me 
Will  smile  no  more.     She  loved  me  once! — 
God  knows  she  loved  me  once;  the  only  one 
That  ever  loved  but  she  that  bore  me; 
For  e'en  my  father  in  the  pride  of  manhood 
Turn'd  from  me,  and  my  brothers  look'd  upon  me 
With  feelings  of  compassion,  not  of  love, 
As  I  had  been  a  creature  that  partook 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  71 

But  partly  of  their  nature,  and  beneath  them; 

Still,  having  claim  upon  their  better  feelings, 

They  gave  me  pity— all  their  hearts  could  give. 

Their  hate  I  might  have  borne,  but  not  their  pity! — 

O!  why  was  I  created!  but  to  be 

The  persecuted  both  of  God  and  man! 

E'en  when  my  load  of  misery  was  lightest 

It  was  enough  to  crush  a  giant's  strength; 

But  now! — what  am  I  now? — so  fallen! — so  debased, 

Both  in  my  own  opinion  and  the  world's, 

That  there  is  not  a  grade  of  abjectness 

Beneath  the  state  I've  reached;  and  I  must  live, 

Beyond   the  power  of  human  remedy — 

Despising  and  despised. 

(Exit.—L.  H. 

SCENE  2 

The  street  before  Viola's  house. — Stage  dark. 
Enter  CLAUDIO. — L.  H. 

Clau.    The  leaden  foot  of  time  steals  on  apace; 

Ere  this  I  should  have  pass'd  the  gates  of  Florence, 
And  breath'd  my  parting  curse;  but  Viola, 
Belov'd!    I'll  hear  the  sound  of  thy  sweet  voice 
Once  more,  and  then  commence  my  wanderings. 
Light  of  my  life,  awake. 

(Window  opens,  and  VIOLA  appears.) 
Viola.    Who  calls? 

Clau.    A  wretch  whose  love  is  hopeless  as  his  fortunes. 
Viola.    That  voice!    Is't  Claudio? 
Clau.    Thanks,  kind  lady; 

You  recognize  me  in 'my  abjectness. 

Bereft  of  fortune  and  my  fair  name  branded; 

An  exile  from  my  country  and  my  friends, 

Yet  you  still  know  me. 
Viola.    Report  has  been  too  busy  with  thy  name, 

But  the  base  slander  gains  no  credit  here, 

I  mourn  thy  exile,  for  the  punishment, 

I  feel,  is  undeserved. 


72  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Clau.    Thy  fair  opinion  gives  new  hope  to  life. 

Viola.    Then  cherish  it. 

Clau.    Doubt  not,  sweet  Viola. 

The  veriest  wretch  that  labors  at  the  oar, 

While  one  faint  spark  of  abject  life  remains, 

Will  dream  of  hope,  and  in  his  baseless  vision 

See  many  years  of  happiness  behind. 

Then,  should  heaven's  voice  command  him  live  and  hope, 

'Twere  impious  not  to  yield  obedient. 

Viola.     Farewell,   my   prayers   attend    thee. 

Clau.    Hear  me  yet. 

Viola.    I  dare  not.    Every  moment  you  remain 

Is  full  of  danger.    Hark!  some  one  approaches. 
VIOLA  closes  the  window. 

Enter  ADORNI. — L.  H. 

Ador.    My  home  is  hell  to  me.     I  cannot  rest 
Had  th'  angel  of  destruction  swept  over  it, 
'Twould  not  have  been  more  desolate  than  now. 
When  the  old  father  of  our  race  was  scourg'd 
From  paradise,  his  Eve  went  with  him,  and 
Where'er  they  rested,  they  their  Eden  made. 
But  I  am  driven  forth  alone,  as  Cain 
Was  driven;  mark'd,  pointed  at,  proscribed ! 
No  paradise  for  me!    My  Eve  is  with  the  serpent. 

Clau.    Adorni  here! 

Ador.    Ha! — We  meet  again.    One  joy  is  still  remaining. 
The  bolt  has  stricken  this  decrepid3  form, 
But  I  am  not  the  only  one  it  sears. 
Thank  heaven!    I  shall  die  laughing  yet. 

Clau.    What  mean  you? 

Ador.    Vengeance,  vengeance,  vengeance! — Ay, 

As  deep  and  direful  as  my  wrongs  have  been. 

Think  not  the  calculating  rule  of  man 

Can  take  from  me  the  right  of  punishment, 

And  in  itself  redress  my  injuries. 

No:  I  alone  can  judge  of  what  is  due 

To  honor  trampled  on,  and  peace  destroy'd. 

The  law  has  had  its  course,  and  I'll  have  mine. 

8  decrepit. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  73 

I  am  the  judge,  and  I  the  executioner 

(Draws.) 

Clau.    You  will  not  murder  me! 
Ador.    Not  murder — sacrifice! 

Draw  and  defend  thyself,  or  die  the  death 

Of  a  coward.     Speak  not,  but  draw. 
Clau.    As  against  a  madman. 

(Draws. 
Ador.    Have  at  thy  heart.     (Attacks  him  furiously.    Fight  for  some 

time,  when  ADORNI  is  disarmed.} 
Ador.     Curse  on  my  sinewless  arm, 

Worthy  the  blighted  trunk  from  which  it  hangs. 

Has  it  come  to  this! — Debas'd  and  trodden  on, 

And  yet  too  feeble  to  avenge  my  wrongs! 

Curs'd  be  the  hour  that  gave  this  body  being! 

Even  the  toad  his  poison  will  exude, 

If  spurn'd,  while  I,  a  worm  without  a  sting, 

Must  vent  my  rage  in  cursing. 
Clau.    There's  thy  sword, 

And  with  it  all  the  scorn  a  thing  so  low 

Can  merit. 
Ador.    Ha!  shall   he   escape   in    triumph, 

And  add  fresh  insult  to  my  injuries! 

'Tis  night,  and  still  he  lingers  here.— That  thought! 

I  have  it  now.    Ha,  ha!    The  bird  is  in  the  toils.    % 
Clau.    What  guilty  thought  delights  thy  canker'd  mind,? 
Ador.    Revenge! — 

Nay,  smile  not,  for,  unarmed  as  I  am, 

My  hate  can  strike  thee  prostrate.— Still  thou  smilest. 

Well  well,  smile  on!    I'll  change  thy  merriment. 

Behold,  the  night  watch  comes;  the  sun  is  set — 

Thy  head  is  forfeited.  Smile  on,  smile  on. 
Clau.  Thou  canst  not  be  so  base  as  to  betray  me. 
Ador.  Base!  What  I  am  thy  villainy  has  made  me. 

The  fool  who  scatters  tares  need  not  expect 

A  golden  harvest.    Base!— I  but  return 

Treachery  for  treachery. 
Clau.    Heartless  villain! 
Ador.    Ha!  ha! — 'Tis  my  turn  now  to  laugh.    Rail  on. 

Thy  rage  is  impotent.    Ho!  guards!    Rail  on, 


74  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Thy  anger  feeds  my  spleen.    Ha!  ha! — O,  'tis  a  feast 
To  see  the  scoffer  scoff'd.     Rail  on.     You  thought 
The  worm  you  trampled  on  could  not  recoil, 
And  lo!  he  stings  to  death.    Ho!  guards! — Behold 

Enter  Guards.— R.  H. 

A  fugitive  from  justice.     Seize  upon  him. — 

'Tis  Claudio!    His  life  is  forfeited 

By  the  just  sentence  of  the  upright  senate. 

Seize  him — seize  him.    Ha!  ha!  ha! 

(CLAUDIO  defends  himself,  but  is  soon  overpowered  by  the  guards.    ADORNI 
laughs  wildly,  in  derision,  and  the  curtain  falls  hastily.) 

END  OF  ACT  III 


ACT  IV 

SCENE  1 

Beraldo's  house  as  before. — A  table  and  chairs. 
Enter  BERALDO,  gloomily. — L.  H. 

Ber.  I  have  had  a  night  of  it;  a  night  of  the  old  fashion,  and  all's 
gone.  The  little  white  pated  fellow's  twenty  ducats  and  all.  The 
devil's  blessing  hang  upon  their  winnings.  All  gone! — (Sits  down.) — 
Now,  what's  to  be  done? 

Enter  ASTRABEL. — R.  H. 

Astra.    Out  all  night!  Where  hast  thou  been,  Beraldo? 

Ber.  Breathing,  breathing,  tasting  the  fresh  air.  Light  food! 
but  not  such  as  a  man  will  grow  fat  on.  Give  me  some  meat. 

Astra.    Yes,  sir. 

Ber.    Why  dost  not  move  then? 

Astra.    I  have  meat,  if  I  dare  produce  it. 

Ber.  Nay,  bring  it  forth,  wench,  and  mind  not  the  quality,  for  I 
am  sick  with  fasting. 

(Exit  ASTRABEL — R.  H. 

Why  did  the  Duke  procure  my  enlargement,  if  his  aid  is  to  stop 
there.  Was  it  mercy  to  give  me  life  and  not  the  means  of  living?  Better 
to  have  suffered  me  to  starve  in  prison,  surrounded  by  wretches  as  abject 
as  myself,  than  to  have  me  drawn  forth  to  pine  to  death  in  the  midst 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  75 

of  a  joyous  and  brilliant  world.  There  was  no  mercy  in  that. — (Enter 
ASTRABEL  with  a  dish  of  meat,  which  she  places  on  the  table.} 

Astra.    The    meat    is    ready,    Beraldo. 

Ber.  (Not  hearing)  And  her  flinty-hearted  father!  to  snap  his  very 
heart  strings  to  punish  her ! 

Astra.    You  do  not  hear  me ! 

Ber.     What  sayest,  chuck? 

Astra.    The  meat  is  on  the  table. 

Ber.  Ah!  this  looks  well! — But  dog's  meat  would  look  well,  I  am 
so  famished.  O !  by  the  lord,  I  could  tear  old  Trebatzo's  flesh.  A  plague 
choke  him,  and  gnaw  him  to  the  bones! 

Astra.    Nay,  sweetest,  rave  not  thus! — Alas!  it  is  no  fault  of  mine. 

Ber.  Thine! — thou  art  a  dove  from  the  nest  of  the  kite.  In  truth 
this  is  savory  meat,  and  I  have  got  a  stomach  with  chafing.  Sit  down, 
Bell,  and  feed. 

Astra.    I  have  no  appetite. 

Ber.  Sit  down,  sit  down,  I  shall  relish  it  the  more  if  you  partake 
of  it.  'Tis  well  cooked!  Where  didst  buy  it?  Well  seasoned  too! 
Sit  down,  sit  down.  I  never  tasted  better.  Where  didst  get  it? 

Astra.    A  neighbor  sent  it  me. 

Ber.    Ah! 

Astra.  I  was  sick  with  hunger,  without  means  to  purchase  food, 
and  a  neighbor  sent  it  me. 

Ber.  Has  it  come  to  this!  beg  victuals!  fed  with  broken  meat! 
My  wife  standing  at  the  rich  man's  gate,  with  a  trencher  to  gather 
the  offal  from  his  table!  O  God,  where  will  it  end! 

Astra.    Eat,  Beraldo. 

Ber.  Starve,  starve  first.  I  owe  heaven  but  one  death,  and  the 
sooner  the  debt  be  paid  the  better.  I  am  weary  of  my  trials. 

Enter  TREBATZO. — L.  H. 

Treb.    A  gentleman  without  desires  to  see  my  mistress. 

Ber.  His  visit  is  ill-timed,  but  show  him  in.  Whoe'er  he  may  be, 
he  cannot  be  worse  welcome  than  despair,  and  that  already  has  taken 
possession  of  our  hovel. 

Astra.    Dost  know  him,  Pacheco? 

Treb.    I  think  it  is  the  Duke. 

Ber.  The  Duke!  quick,  show  him.  (Exit  TREBATZO. — L.  H.) 
He  is  a  noble  friend,  indeed,  who,  like  the  glorious  sun,  withholds  not 
his  rays  even  from  the  barren  and  neglected  waste.  The  Duke!  I  revive. 


76  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Enter  TREBATZO  and  DUKE. — L.  H. 

Your  grace  is  welcome.  Years  have  flown  since  my  roof  has  been 
honored  with  your  presence. 

Duke.  For  the  future,  Beraldo,  I  shall  not  be  as  remiss  as  I  have 
been. 

Ber.  As  Duke  of  Florence,  you  gave  me  life  and  freedom,  and 
though  the  gift  proves  to  be  of  little  value,  I  thank  you  for  it  with  all 
my  heart.  As  a  man,  you  have  sought  me  out  in  my  wretchedness; 
for  that  act  I  cannot  thank  you.  I  am  grateful,  but  no  words  can 
thank  you. 

Treb.    A  heart  of  the  right  stuff. 

Duke.  How  is  it,  Beraldo,  that  so  long  a  time  has  elapsed  and  we 
have  not  met? 

Ber.  O!  sir,  the  prince  and  his  subject  may  jostle  each  other  and 
still  be  distant.  When  we  last  parted,  my  Lord,  you  travelled  towards 
a  throne,  and  I  towards  a  prison.  You  were  too  lofty  to  stoop,  and  I 
too  heavy  laden  to  rise,  therefore  we  met  not. 

Duke.  But  I  might  have  relieved  you  of  your  burden  had  you 
appealed  to  me. 

Ber.    That  I  suppose  your  grace  knew  without  being  reminded. 

Duke.    You  knew  me  for  your  friend,  Beraldo. 

Ber.    I  did  at  a  time  when  I  stood  not  in  need  of  your  friendship. 

Duke.  Nay,  Beraldo,  why  so  perverse?  You  cannot  think  so 
lightly  of  me  as  to  suppose  that  a  change  of  fortune  must  necessarily 
work  a  change  in  my  nature. 

Ber.  Pardon  me,  your  grace;  my  sorrows  have  somewhat  soured 
my  temper.  I  have  been  trampled  under  foot,  ground  in  the  very 
dust,  but  I  feel  that  I  am  of  as  much  worth  still  as  when  I  went  more 
richly  clad;  and  that  your  grace  is  no  better  man  in  your  purple  than 
when  you  called  me  friend.  These  feelings  forbad  my  crawling  from 
my  hovel  to  your  palace,  knowing  that  I  would  have  left  a  palace  in 
search  of  my  friend  in  a  hovel. 

Treb.    That's    from    a    pure    fountain. 

Duke.  I  feel  the  justice  of  your  censure;  I  have  been  to  blame. 
Give  me  your  hand;  my  future  conduct  shall  cancel  the  remembrance 
of  past  neglect. 

Ber.  Your  kindness  overwhelms  me.  My  heart  has  been  so  long 
unused  to  kindness,  that  the  slightest  ray  melts  it. 

Duke.    Your  wife,  Beraldo? 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  77 

Ber.  The  same.  The  only  flower  that  blossoms  on  this  soil,  and 
somewhat  faded  since  you  last  beheld  her. 

Duke.  But  still  beautiful.  By  your  leave  I  must  taste  the  fragrance 
of  her  lip.  (Salutes  ASTRABEL.)  True  to  my  word,  mistress,  you  see  I 
am  with  you  soon  again. 

Ber.    With  her  again ! 

Astra.  Your  grace  is  kind  in  giving  me  so  early  an  opportunity 
to  express  my  gratitude  for  your  bounties. 

Duke.  Name  them  not.  They  are  but  the  precursors  to  farther 
favors. 

Ber.  What  does  all  this  mean!  He  takes  her  hand.  Pacheco — 
Thou  seest,  old  man,  we  keep  good  company;  we  are  in  a  fair  way. 
His  grace  is  gracious. 

Treb.    I  see,  I  see.  (Obesrmng  the  DUKE  and  ASTRABEL  intently.) 

Duke.  (Looking  around.)  This  is  a  plain  casket  for  so  bright  a 
jewel  to  lodge  in. 

Astra.    As  bright  has  lodged  in  a  plainer. 

Duke.    And  what  is  that? 

Astra.     Content. 

Ber.  Still  playing  with  her  hand.  He  cannot  mean  it.  He  bows 
and  smiles.  That  look!  Goats  and  apes,  I  understand  you  now. 

Duke.  Read  this  at  your  lesure.  (Slips  a  letter  into  her  hand,  which 
she  places  in  her  bosom.) 

Treb.    Hell!    she  takes  it. 

Ber.  What,  art  thou  mad!  (Turning,  sees  ASTRABEL  take  her  hand 
from  her  bosom.)  Ha!  Why  then,  all's  plain. 

Duke.  Apart  to  ASTRABEL.)  Thou  shalt  soon  judge  of  my  taste  in 
jewels:  this  morning  I  selected  a  casket,  which  I  beg  you  to  accept  for 
my  sake.  I  take  my  leave;  time  will  pass  sluggishly  until  I  see  you 
again.  Good  Beraldo,  we  must  see  each  other  as  in  former  times.  I 
will  visit  thy  low  roof  often. 

Ber.  O!  you  would  do  me  too  much  honor!  But  have  a  care  that 
the  old  house  fall  not  about  your  grace's  ears. 

Duke.  You  are  merry.  I  know,  Beraldo,  that  a  prison  is  a  gulph 
that  swallows  wealth  with  appetite  unbounded.  I  will  be  thy  banker. 
Use  my  purse  as  thy  own.  Thou  hast  had  a  severe  trial,  but  the  storm 
is  over.  Look  forward  to  better  days.  For  this  time  farewell;  we  soon 
shall  meet  again. 


78  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Ber.  Yes,  we  soon  shall  meet  again.  Open  the  door,  sirrah — open 
wide  as  the  gates  of  hell,,  that  the  prince  of  darkness  may  have  free  pas 
sage  from  my  house. 

(Exeunt  DUKE  and  TREBATZO. — L.  H. 

Astra.    Beraldo,  what  means  this  passion? 

Ber.  Woman!  But  it  is  not  for  the  thunder  to  strike  the  pliant 
reed.  What,  has  it  come  to  this!  Does  he  think  that  I,  who  have 
spread  as  lofty  sails  as  he  hath,  am  such  a  slave  to  appetite  that  I  may 
be  brought  to  open  the  door,  bonnet  in  hand,  and  welcome  in  infamy! 
He  does  not  know  me  yet. 

Astra.    Hear  me,  Beraldo. 

Ber.  Not  now,  not  now.  I  will  not  speak  to  thee,  thou  poor  stricken 
one,  while  my  soul  is  up  in  arms.  Begone,  begone.  (Exit  ASTRABEL.) 
I  did  think  that  I  had  long  since  tasted  of  every  state  of  human  degrada 
tion,  little  dreaming  that  I  was  reserved  for  this. 

Enter  LODOVICO. — L.  H. 

Another  here !  the  court  flies  already  buzz  about  me. 

Lodo.    How  now,  gloomy  Beraldo? 

Ber.    Slight  indications  of  a  coming  storm. 

Lodo.    Let  it  blow  over  and  give  place  to  sunshine. 

Ber.    The  lightning  shall  scathe  and  the  torrent  shall  pour  first. 

Lodo.  Nay,  be  not  thus  moody  because  fortune  frowns.  Say  that 
the  world  made  thee  her  minion  and  danced  thee  on  her  wanton  knee, 
thou  wouldst  still  have  thy  portion  of  care,  and  neither  sleep  the  better, 
nor  live  longer  nor  merrier.  Hang  sorrow. 

Ber.    Well,  hang  sorrow,  an  thou  wilt. 

Lodo.  Thou  mayest  say  so,  for  surely  some  left-handed  priest 
christened  thee,  thou  art  so  lucky.  See  here,  a  purse  of  gold. 

Ber.    A  purse  of  gold.    Well? 

Lodo.    A  hundred  ducats,  which  the  duke  sends  thee. 

Ber.  O!  he's  a  liberal  prince!  (Takes  the  purse.)  Heaven  grant  I 
live  to  repay  his  liberality. 

Enter  TREBATZO,  with  a  cloak  on  his  arm. — L.  H. 

Treb.  You  are  now  in  a  fair  way  to  fly  high,  signer,  for  fine  feathers 
make  fine  birds. 

Ber .    What  hast  thou  there,  old  man? 

Treb.  A  cloak  of  the  latest  fashion,  richly  embroidered  with  silk 
and  gold.  'Twould  show  bravely  on  the  back  of  a  courtier. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  79 

Ber.    Would  it  on  the  back  of  an  honest  man? 

Treb.     Put  it  on  trial,  signor,  the  duke  sent  it  thee. 

Ber.  A  liberal  prince,  still  say  I.  (Takes  the  cloak.)  Thinkest  thou, 
Pacheco,  my  shoulders  are  broad  enough  to  bear  the  many  favors  he 
intends  me. 

Treb.    Never  question  it. 

Ber.  Nay,  old  man,  I  must  question  it;  ay,  and  face  to  face  with 
him  who  alone  can  answer  it.  I  begin  to  see  myself.  A  hundred 
ducats  and  a  tawdry  suit  is  all  that  now  is  bid  for  what  the  universe 
could  not  have  purchased — my  honor.  'Tis  well,  'tis  well. 

Treb.    Put  on  the  cloak,  signor,  the  duke  expects  you  at  court. 

Ber.  The  poisoned  shirt  of  Nessus  first.  To  the  devil  with  the 
baubles.  (Throws  the  purse  and  cloak  violently  away.)  The  duke  expects 
me;  well,  he  shall  not  be  disappointed,  though  he  shall  encounter  a 
different  man  than  he  expects  to  meet;  and  ere  we  part  I  shall  teach  him, 
that  e'en  the  dull  flint  contains  sufficient  fire  to  burn  the  habitable 
globe  to  ashes.  The  flint  has  been  struck  and  the  spark  elicited. 

(Exeunt— L.  H. 

SCENE  2 
A  prison— Claudius  discovered. 

Clau.    There's  nought  more  certain  than  that  all  must  die, 
But  when  or  how  no  wisdom  can  foretell. 
Each  spot  is  pregnant  with  a  bane  to  life; 
Each  hour  we're  subject  to   the  dreaded  call, 
And  children  tread  the  path  before  their  parents, 
Wringing  from  hearts,  a  world  of  woe  had  seared, 
The  only  drop  of  moisture  that  delay'd 
Their  crumbling  into   dust.    But  I  must  fall, 
While  life  is  dimpled  o'er  with  rosy  smiles; 
In  perfect  health  of  body  and  of  mind, 
Ere  grief  has  taught  me  to  expect  the  future 
As  the  dull  remnant  of  a  tedious  tale. 
Enter  JAILOR. — R.  H. 

Jailor.    There  is  a  priest  without  demands  to  see  you. 

Clau.    Admit  him. 

(Exit  JAILOR. 

For  as   to-morrow  I  may  elsewhere  shrive, 
I'd  have  remission  from  this  holy  father. 
Enter  ADORNI,  dressed  as  a  friar. — R.  H. 


80  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Ador.    Lo!  there  he  lies, 

Where  neither  light  nor  comfort  can  come  near  him, 
Nor   air   nor   earth   that's   wholesome. 

Clau.    Father,  I  greet  thee  with  a  broken  spirit, 
Prepar'd  to  meet  thy  piety  and  wisdom 
With   due   respect   and   reverence. 

Ador.     (Apart.}  Can  this  be  he! 

What  weak  and  superstitious  fools  are  men! 
If  thoughts  of  death  be  distant  from  the  mind, 
The  roaring  thunder,  and  the  forked  fires 
That  rend  the  arch  of  heaven,  we  contemplate, 
Without  reflecting   that   'tis  nature's   God 
Speaks  to  the  lowly  creatures  of  his  will: 
But  if  th'  appointed  time  of  death  draw  nigh, 
And   the  mind's  filled  with   terrors   undefin'd, 
We  yield  obedient  to  a  juggling  monk; 
Forget  that  he  is  frailty  like  ourselves, 
And  quaff  the  jargon  flowing  from  his  lips 
As    oracles    divine. 

Clau.    You    see    me    here 

In  health  and  vigor,  yet  about  to  leave 

This  joyful  world,  while  all  its  flowers  are  blooming. 

Ador.    Turn  the  loose  current  of  thy  frolic  mind, 

From  the  gay  scenes  of  thoughtlessness  and  guilt, 
To  errors  unrepented;   to  some  sin 
Whose  frightful  hue  o'ershadows  all  thy  virtues, 
And  being  unforgiven,  leaves  thee  hopeless. 

Clau.    In  the  whole  catalogue  of  all  my  faults 
There  is  not  one  like  this. 

Ador.    Report   speaks  otherwise. 

Clau.    True,  father,  but  report  has  ever  been 
Too   fond   of   foul   mouth'd    tales. 

Ador.    Deny  it  not. 

To-morrow's  sun  may  close  upon  this  life, 
And  thou  wilt  hail  the  first  beams  of  the  next, 
In  what  new  region  man  cannot  divine. 
But  perjury  in  this  life,  thy  soul  must  feel, 
Will  not  gain  credit  in  the  life  to  come. 
Adorni's  wife? 

Clau.    Is  chaste,  unspotted, 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  81 

For  any  act  of  mine,  or  thought,  or  wish, 

As  the  bright  stars  that  stud  the  firmament 

When  not  a  cloud  is  seen. 
Ador.    Can   this  be   true? 
Clau.     By  all  the  terrors  of  a  dying  man, 

As  I  speak  truth,  so  speed  my  future  journey. 
Ador.    I  must  believe   thee.     Scorpion  like,   I've   turn'd 

My  sting  upon  myself,  and  needs  must  die. 
Clau.    What    moves    thee,    father? 
Ador.    And  is  the  wretch  who  brought  thee  to  this  state 

Forgiven  yet? 
Clau.    He  was  my  friend,  and  being  such,  good  father, 

The  sun  ne'er  rose  and  set  while  his  offences 

Were   in   this   breast   remembered. 
Ador.    You    forgive    him? 
Clau.    E'en  as  I  hope  myself  to  be  forgiven. 
Ador.    Thou  hast  a  heart  whose  lustre  far  outshines 

The  ocean's  richest  gems;  whose  ev'ry  drop 

Flows  on  as  purely  as  the  spotless  milk 

From  the  young  mother's  breast,  her  first  born  feeding. 

But  he  who  crush'd  thee  in  his  fit  of  rage, 

And  made  his  own  hopes  bankrupt,  might  defy 

A  sea  of  tears  to  wash  his  stains  away. 
Clau.    Nay,  say  not  so.    The  fault,  sir,  lies  between 

My  wretched  friend  and  me;   and   I   forgive  him. 

His  scorned  wife  prays  for  him — adores  him  still — 

Then  who  remains  to  censure? 
Ador.    I — Behold!    (Throws    of  the   disguise.) 

A  wretch  who  has  but  too  much  cause  to  curse 

The  fool  Adorni. 
Clau.    Ha!  what  masquerade  is  this! 

Why  are  you  here? 
Ador.    To  be  forgiven. 
Clau.    If  that  be  all,   thy  errand's  soon  perform'd. 

Thy  fault's  forgiven;  and,  ere  the  sun  shall  set, 

'Twill  be  forgotten   too,   or  never   trust 

The   laws   of   this   proud   city.     So   farewell. 
Ador.    On  my  neck  first  shall  fall  the  headsman's  axe. 


82  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Clau.    Thy  neck,  indeed!  Fair  words  are  lightly  spoken! 

Begone,   Adorni;   leave   me   to   myself; 

My   time   is   short. 
Ador.    Thy  life  can  yet  be  saved. 

Clau.    And  thou  wouldst  save  it;  thou  who  hast  betray 'd? 
Ador.    I  cannot  blame  thy  doubts,  since  I  begot  them. 

Still  I  will  save  thy  life,  for  all  this  world 

Contains  is  not  as  dear  to  me. 
Clau.    Indeed! 
Ador.     Clothed  in  this  sacred  garb,  thou  may'st  elude 

The  jailor's  vigilance. 
Clau.    Art  thou  sincere? 

No  new  device  in  this? 
Ador.    O,    Claudio! 

Clau.    And  when  I'm  gone,  say  what  becomes  of  thee? 
Ador.    Think  not  of  me. 
Clau.     Give  me  thy  hand,  I  feel  thou'rt  still  my  friend, 

Dearer  than  ever. 
Ador.    You  consent  then? 
Clau.    Never! 

He  is  a  madman  who  would  purchase  life 

By  such  an  act,  which  of  itself  would  make 

His  life  not  worth  the  purchase. — Know  me  better. 
Ador.    Hear  me. 
Clau.    No  more  of  that. 
Ador.    I  hazard  nought. 

The  duke  will  spare  my  life,  but  O!  I  fear 

The  law  will  be  less  merciful  to  thee. 

Why  hesitate? 

Clau.    Nay,   nay;  no  more  of   that. 
Ador.    Is  Viola  forgotten? 
Clau.    O!  Adorni. 
Ador.    Think,   think  of  Viola.    The  duke's  my  kinsman, 

And  would  not  shed  my  blood  for  saving  thine. 

There,  there  the  cloak. 

(Puts  the  cloak  on  CLAUDIO. 

Ho,    there!    who    waits    without? 

Speed  thee,  good  Claudio,  beyond  the  city, 

There  all  is  safe.    Fear  not  for  me.    My  life, 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  83 

I  feel,  will  outlast  happiness. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  did  hope  its  close 

Would  be  a  foretaste  of  the  life  to  come, 

Made  holy  by  thy  presence  and  her  love 

Whose  smiles  made  this  world  heaven.    But  that's  past. 

And  I  foresee  my  latest  hour  must  close 

In  tempest  and  in  gloom.    Ho,  there!  who  waits? 

(JAILOR  appears. 

Father,  your  blessing,  and  a  last  farewell. 
Clau.    Benedicite. 

Exit  with  JAILOR. — R.  H. 

SCENE  3 

A  street  before  the  Prison. 
Enter  EUGENIA. — L.  H. 

Eug.    Where    shall  I  fly  for    refuge?  O,  Adorni! 

There's  no  way  left!  My  name  is  foully  stain'd! — 

E'en  in  the  grave  the  breath  of  scorn  will  reach  me, 

And  rouse  the  mouldering  ashes  into  life! 
Enter  CLAUDiofrom  the  prison. — R.  H. 
Clau.    I  breathe  again  the  bracing  air  of  freedom, 

Which  now  is  all  that  envious  fate  has  left  me. 

Still    lean    adversity,    possess'd    of    that, 

Is  heaven  compared  to  any  state  without  it; 

And  though  now  stripp'd  of  fortune's  gaudy  trappings, 

I  still  am  free — the  world's  my  heritage. 
Eug.    Ah!  Claudio  here!  Where  is  Adorni?   Speak! 

Where   is   my   cruel   husband?    I   have   been 

In  search  of  him  e'en  to  our  wretched  home. 

He    was    not    there.    How    desolate    it    seem'd. 
Clau.    Thou'lt  find  him  in  that  prison. 
Eug.    Why  in  prison? 
Clau.    He  betrayed  me, 

And  having  forced  me  to  the  jaws  of  death, 

Has  ta'en  my  place  to  save  me. 
Eug.    Didst  thou  consent 

On  terms  like  these  to  save  thy  wretched  life? 

O!  shame  to  manhood,  shame!  Quick  fly  my  sight, 

Lest  in  my  grief  I  turn  betrayer  too, 


84  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

And  do  a  deed  will  make  me  curse  myself. 
Good  Heavens!  in  prison!  Away!  I'll  seek  him  there, 
And  offer  all  the  solace  to  his  woes 
A   broken   heart   can   yield.     (Exit   into   prison. — R.    H. 
Clau.    O!   woman,   source   of   every   earthly   bliss, 
Without    thee,    Eden   was    a   wilderness; 
But   with   thee,   even   Afric's   desert   sands 
Would  bloom  as  Paradise  before  the  fall. 
(Exit.—L.  H. 

SCENE  4 
Enter  ORIANA. — R.  H. 

Ori.  And  can  it  be  that  four  short  years  have  so  changed  me,  that 
he  cannot  look  upon  a  fair  face  without  wishing  that  mine  were  such,  or 
indeed  any  other  than  what  it  is?  Yet  perhaps  I  wrong  him — perhaps — 

Enter  LODOVICO. — L.  H. 

Well,  Lodovico,  why  smilest  thou? 

Lodo.  O!  it's  a  fair  day.  madona,  and  I  always  smile  when  the 
sun  shines.  Though  the  idlest  hanger-on  at  court,  I  am  getting  into 
service,  lady. 

Ori.    How  so? 

Lodo.  His  grace,  the  duke,  not  an  hour  since,  sent  me  with  a  purse 
of  gold  to  poor  Beraldo's  hovel.  He  is  becoming  charitable,  and  I 
am  proud  to  be  his  almoner. 

Ori.  Is  it  strange  that  those  who  have  the  power  to  distribute 
blessings,  should  have  the  will  also? 

Lodo.  They  do  not  always  go  hand  in  hand,  lady.  Well,  before 
I  had  performed  my  first  errand,  a  second  was  imposed  upon  me,  and 
that  too  by  Beraldo's  beauteous  wife.  O!  I  am  getting  into  service 
rapidly. 

Ori.    Why  name  her  in  my  presence?    Fie  upon  her. 

Lodo.  Scoff  not  at  her;  if  all  were  branded  for  sins  long  since  laid 
up,  who  could  be  saved?  You  know  her  not.  As  well  might  you  look 
for  the  passage  of  the  bird  through  the  air,  or  for  the  track  of  the  ship, 
as  for  the  scar  of  those  old  offences. 

Ori.    Is  she  so  changed? 

Lodo.  So  much  so  that  a  vestal  may  now  uphold  her  reputation 
against  the  slanders  of  the  world.  She  desired  me  to  deliver  into  your 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  85 

own  hands  this  letter  and  this  casket  of  jewels,  as  she  says  they  are 
addressed  to  you. 

(Hands  her  a  letter  and  casket. 

Ori.  To  me!  this  is  strange;  how  came  they  in  her  possession? 
(Reads.)  "To  my  soul's  idol."  Why,  this  is  the  duke's  own  writing! 

Lo do.  And  therefore  designed  for  you,  lady;  for,  as  she  remarked, 
a  faithful  husband  can  have  no  other  idol  than  a  loving  wife. — An  apt 
conclusion,  made  from  close  observation  of  nature. 

Ori.     'Tis  well.     I  thank  you  for  your  service.     You  can  go. 

Lodo.  So  the  duke  is  fairly  trapped.  This  matrimony,  I  find, 
resembles  somewhat  the  religion  of  the  old  Romans — every  man  must 
confine  his  devotions  to  his  household  lar,  or  his  home  will  soon  become 
too  hot  to  hold  him.  (Exit.—R.  H. 

Ori.  (Opens  the  letter.}  Why,  what  a  strain  of  eloquence  is  here! 
Cupid  himself  was  sure  his  secretary,  and  the  very  ink  was  dropped 
from  Venus'  eyes.  To  me  he  never  wrote  thus!  Oaths,  promises,  and 
jewels,  enough  to  tempt  a  vestal  from  her  duty,  and  yet  all  proudly 
disdained  by  one  that  the  world  trampled  on  as  if  beneath  its  notice. 
What  excellence  must  dwell  in  that  bosom?  Ha!  here  comes  the  duke! 
I  will  no  longer  conceal  from  him  the  knowledge  I  possess,  but  tax 
him  home  with  his  perfidy. 

Enter  DUKE.— L.  H. 

Duke.  (Aside.)  So,  still  some  symptoms  of  a  storm  remaining! 
My  gentle  Oriana,  I  am  charmed  to  see  that  the  clouds  that  hung  around 
thy  brow  this  morning  have  dispersed,  and  that  the  light  of  thy  sweet 
face  breaks  forth  again. 

Ori.  Your  grace  is  courteous.  I  find  you  are  as  gallant  after  a 
lapse  of  four  years  as  upon  our  wedding  day. 

Duke.  More  so;  and  trust  me,  the  wife's  to  blame  if  the  husband's 
gallantry  does  not  improve  with  time. 

Ori.  But  often  it  increases  to  such  a  degree  that  it  cannot  be  con 
fined  to  a  single  object.  In  that  case,  who  is  to  blame? 

Duke.  The  wife,  certainly.  It  is  her  business  to  keep  her  husband 
to  herself;  and  if  she  neglect  it,  the  fault  lies  with  her.  The  point  is 
clear  as  noonday. 

Ori.    That  is  man's  sophistry;  woman  would  reason  differently. 

Duke.  Would  she  not  rather  permit  her  passions  to  decide,  than 
go  to  the  trouble  of  reasoning  at  all  upon  the  subject?  Even  the  gentlest 
are  at  times  thus  borne  away.  Confess  now,  Oriana,  you  did  me  wrong 


86  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

in  your  suspicions  of  poor  Beraldo's  wife. 

Ori.    I  confess  that  I  did  Astrabel  injustice,  and  am  sorry  for  it. 

Duke.  She  was  a  petitioner  for  her  husband's  life,  and  you  would 
not  have  me  close  my  ears  to  mercy. 

Ori.  Certainly  not,  even  though  a  beauteous  woman  were  the  advo 
cate;  and  she  is  a  peerless  one. 

Duke.  I  begin  to  think  so,  and  am  anxious  to  see  her  restored  to 
her  former  station.  Poor  thing!  I  never  beheld  a  creature  more  devoted 
to  her  husband. 

Ori.  You  have  found  that  out  sir?  But  let  us  dismiss  her,  and 
turn  to  a  subject  more  grateful.  Your  present  has  been  received. 

Duke.     My  present! 

Ori.  And  I  commend  your  taste.  I  knew  not  till  now  that  you 
possessed  such  rare  judgment  in  jewels.  True,  you  chose  a  strange 
way  of  presenting  them,  but  still  they  are  valued  as  a  testimony  of 
your  gallantry  and  love. 

Duke.    I  am  in  the  dark!    What  mean  you  Oriana? 

Ori.    This  casket  will  explain. 

(Produces  the  casket. 

Duke.    Confusion ! 

Ori.    You  have  seen  it  before  my  lord? 

Duke.    I  think  I  have. 

Ori.  Rich  as  the  jewels  are,  they  are  much  more  lightly  prized 
than  the  impassioned  letter  that  accompanied  them. 

Duke.    The  letter! 

Ori.  (Produces  the  letter.}  Read  for  yourself.  There  is  honeyed 
poison!  You  know  the  hand.  O,  fie,  my  lord,  my  lord! 

Duke.     Can  it  be  possible!    Whence  had  you  this? 

Ori.  From  a  source  you  little  think  of — "Your  soul's  idol";  far 
worthier  of  your  love  than  you  imagined,  for  though  surrounded  by 
poverty,  and  having  neither  fame  nor  friends  to  lose,  she  has  with  scorn 
rejected  your  shameful  overtures. 

Duke.    I  beseech  you  let  not  passion  carry  you  beyond  reason. 

Ori.  My  lord,  my  lord,  attempt  not  to  palliate;  think  of  the  base 
ness  of  the  act.  Beraldo  was  your  friend — trampled  on  by  a  scoffing 
world.  One  word  from  you  would  have  changed  their  scoffs  to  praises, 
and,  yet,  so  far  from  feeling  compassion,  you  attempt  to  rob  him  of  the 
only  good  he  has  remaining,  and  make  him  poorer  than  the  poorest. 
Shame!  O  shame!  Better,  my  lord,  were  it  to  be  without  power,  than 
thus  to  use  it  to  oppress  the  fallen. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  87 

Duke.  Hear  me  but  speak.  She's  gone.  So,  the  storm  is  fairly 
raised,  and  heaven  only  knows  when  it  will  pass  over.  (A  noise  with 
out.)  What  means  this  disturbance  in  the  palace? 

Enter  BERALDO. — L.  H. 

Ber.  Off,  ye  sycophants  and  slaves.  Tis  not  the  first  time  my 
foot  has  trod  upon  this  pavement;  though  ye  have  forgotten  that, 
this  time  shall  be  remembered. 

Duke.     Beraldohere! 

Ber.  I  could  not  longer  rest  patiently  under  the  weight  of  the 
obligation  that  your  grace  would  confer  upon  me,  and  have  come  to 
express  my  gratitude. 

Duke.    Name  it  not. 

Ber.  Pardon  me,  I  must,  and  in  such  terms,  too,  that  no  mistake 
may  follow.  Are  you  acquainted  with  yourself,  sir? 

Duke.    Thoroughly. 

Ber.  I  am  sorry  for  it,  for  I  must  say  it  is  a  disgrace  to  the  Duke 
of  Florence  to  be  acquainted  with  such  a  scoundrel. 

Duke.     Scoundrel ! 

(Half  unsheaths  his  sword, — pauses,  and  sheathes  it  again.) 

Ber.  That  was  the  word  but  since  it  is  not  sufficient  to  rouse 
your  courage  hear  more.  There  was  a  time  when  I  stood  by  your 
side  your  equal  in  the  world's  eye  in  the  proudest  faculties  that  nature 
bestows  on  man.  Our  names  were  linked  together  on  the  public  tongue 
and  the  one  could  not  pass  but  the  other  followed.  Our  hearts  it  seemed 
were  also  joined,  until  your  father  thought  fit  to  lay  the  axe  at  the  very 
root  of  my  growing  fortunes,  discard  me  from  court,  and  disgrace  the 
man  whom  he  once  delighted  to  honor.  And  why  was  this?  Because  I 
was  not  wholly  devoid  of  the  frailties  of  my  nature.  From  that  hour 
the  faces  of  all  were  turned  against  me,  save  those  who  were  too  low 
to  be  sunk  lower;  and  Florence  became  as  a  strange  land.  Years  passed 
away,  and  my  nature  was  changed  by  penury  and  shame.  You  knew 
my  sufferings,  and  you  also  knew  that  a  single  word  from  your  lips 
would  have  raised  me  to  life  and  hope  again,  and  yet  you  had  not  the 
humanity  to  breathe  that  word. 

Duke.    Beraldo. 

Ber.  I  have  not  done  yet.  Your  neglect  stung  for  a  moment  and 
was  forgotten.  I  placed  you  to  the  account  of  things  created  to  be 
despised,  and  cared  not  again  to  look  at  the  offensive  page.  Your 
grace  was  forgotten  until  this  day  you  condescended  to  visit  my  humble 


88  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

roof,  when  your  well  feigned  friendship  awakened  feelings  that  for 
years  have  slumbered  in  my  bosom.  For  a  moment  I  felt  towards  you 
as  I  did  in  happier  days,  but  soon  I  discovered  that  the  seeming  angel 
who  came  to  solace  the  feeble  and  the  wretched,  was  an  arch  devil,  who, 
under  an  assumed  shape,  would  have  basely  stolen  the  only  remaining 
good  the  malice  of  the  world  had  left  me. 

Duke.     Will   you   not   hear    me? 

Ber.  I  came  not  here  to  bandy  idle  words.  I  trust  my  cause,  sir, 
to  my  advocate,  (touching  his  sword,)  well  satisfied  that  his  sharp  argu 
ment  will  place  the  beggar  and  the  prince  upon  a  footing.  Draw  and 
defend  thyself,  if  a  life  like  thine  be  worth  defending.  (Draws 

Duke.    Beraldo,  are  you  mad? 

Ber.  I  cannot  but  remember  there  was  a  time  when  you  would  as 
soon  have  leaped  into  a  den  of  hungry  tigers,  as  to  have  offered  me  this 
day's  insult.  True,  you  presumed  upon  my  outward  change,  but  to 
thy  cost  thou'lt  find  me  still  the  same  within.  Defend  thyself,  I  say, 
while  I  teach  thee  how  a  knave  in  purple  and  gold  may  be  put  down 
by  honesty  in  rusty  velvet. 

(Presses  on  the  Duke. 

Duke.    Ho!  there,  without! 

Enter  LODOVICO  and  others,  who  seize  and  disarm  BERALDO. 

Ber.  Are  these  your  princely  tricks?  The  ducal  crown  has  made 
a  noble  fellow  of  you. 

Duke.    Away  with  him  to  prison. 

Ber.    A  duke,  a  duke,  but  no  man,  no  man,  by  heaven! 
(Exeunt. — BERALDO  led  of. — L.  H. 
END  OF  ACT  IV 


ACTV 

SCENE  1 

The  Prison. — ADORNI  and  EUGENIA  discovered. — BERALDO  lying  at  a 

distance  on  the  floor. 

Ador.    And  can  you  then  forgive  me?    My  glad  heart 
Leaps  at  the  sound  of  thy  sweet  voice  again, 
Unmindful  of  its  weight  of  guilty  sorrow, 
And  I  could  gaze  upon  thee  thus  forever, 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  89 

Till  my  wrapp'd  soul  had  joyfully  assum'd 
Thy  form  and  purity,  most  fit  for  heaven. 
Speak,  speak,  belov'd,  O!  let  me  hear  thy  voice! 
Say  you  again  forgive  me. 
Eug.    Joyfully! 

Thus  will  I  ever  hang  about  thy  neck, 
In  prison  or  in  palace, 
Ador.    Hear  her,  ye  saints, 

And  gain  another  virtue  from  her  truth, 
Beyond  what  poets,  in  their  fondest  dreams, 
E'er  sung  of  woman! 

Ber.  Go  on,  and  ring  the  changes  on  that  note! — There's  nought 
in  life  like  bitter  suffering  for  sweetening  our  natures.  Grief  mends  the 
heart,  good  sister. 

Eug.    If  so,  thine  would  have  been  perfect  long  ere  this. 
Ber.    Nay,   mine  was  broken  past  mending. 
Ador.    Beraldo — 

Ber.    What  says  the  little  mirror  of  honor? 
Ador.    We  have  never  known  each  other. 

Ber.  Well,  'twas  no  fault  of  mine.  I  was  familiar  enough,  heaven 
knows,  to  encourage  you.  (Rises. 

Ador.  And  had  I  not  been  blind  with  pride,  I  might  have  perceived, 
that  beneath  the  rough  outside  you  assumed,  there  was  a  noble,  gen 
erous,  and  feeling  heart. 

Ber.  Feeling! — The  shafts  of  the  world  have  been  shot  at  it  until 
it  is  one  entire  wound.  Feeling! 

Ador.    And  can  you  forgive  me  the  shaft  that  I  have  thrown. 
Ber.    It  hit  the  mark,  signer,  but  I  forgive  you,  and  shall  ever 
think  the  better  of  myself  that  thy  proud  heart  has  deigned  to  ask  it. 
Ador.    Your  hand. 

Ber.  In  tears,  boy!  No  words  could  speak  as  eloquently  as  those 
silent  tears!  Still  you  were  right,  Adorni.  I  know  the  worth  of  a 
fair  name,  and  I  was  once  as  proud  of  mine  as  any  here  in  Florence, 
until  it  was  stolen  from  me,  and  banded  about  by  the  foul  breath  of 
cut- throat  rascals;  and  then,  in  self  defence,  I  scoffed  at  those  who  suf 
fered  their  actions  to  be  biased  by  a  name.  But  no  matter;  my  scof 
fing  is  over,  and  my  name,  such  as  it  is,  is  quite  good  enough  for  a  gibbet. 
Eug.  Despair  not  yet,  Beraldo. 

Ber.  O,  I  shall  fly  high  to  the  last.  But  poor  Astrabel,  who  will 
feel  for  thee  when  I  am  gone?  Condemned  in  the  sight  of  the  world; 


90  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

fallen  in  thine  own  esteem;  cast  off  by  those  who  should  love  thee; 
who  will  comfort  thee  in  thy  forlorn  and  widowed  state? 

Eug.     I — I,   Beraldo,   never  will  forsake,   her. 

Ber.    You ! — God  bless  you !    The  act  will  pave  your  path  to  heaven. 

Enter  DUKE.— R.  H. 
Ador.    Ah!  the  Duke  here! 
Duke.     What   madness,    Count   Adorni,    urged   you   on 

To  bear  the  weight  of  Claudio's  punishment? 
Ador.     Compassion  for  the  friend  my  madness  injured. 
Duke.    And  injured  innocent  what  brings  you  here? 

(To  EUGENIA. 

Eug.    He's  still  my  husband,  though  your  grace  did  part  us. 
Duke.     It  then  would  grieve  you  that  the  insulted  law 

Should  separate  you? 
Ador.    O,  sir,  but  for  that, 

We  have  no  earthly  grief,  no  earthly  fear. 
Eug.    Rather  than  leave  him  now,  I'd  undergo 

The  sharpest  woes  that  e'er  awaited  mortal. 
Duke.    You  shall  redeem  him  at  an  easier  rate. 

(Walks  to  the  back  of  the  stage  with  her. 

Ador.    What  means  this  mystery? 

Ber.     Court  tricks,  I'll  warrant  you.     Court  tricks.     I  know  him. 

Ador.    He  ever  loved  her. 

Ber.    I  have  heard  as  much. 

But  for  that  matter  Jove  himself  you'll  find 
A  very  Joseph,  when  compared  to  him. 

Ador.    She  starts! 

Ber.    And  well  she  may;  the  knave's  a  startler. 

Duke.     Consider   it.    The    holy   link    that   bound 

Your  fates  together  has  been  rashly  severed. 
He  therefore  has  no  reason  to  complain, 
His  life  being  purchased  by  a  trifling  toy 
He  reckless  cast  away  and  did  not  value. 

Eug.    Do  not  insult  me,  on  my  knees  I  pray  you. 

Ador.    Wretch,  stay  not  longer  here,  or  I  may  do 
An  act  of  bloody  justice,  that  shall  teach 
Reptiles  in  office,  the  bruis'd  worm  they  tread  on 
May  turn  and  sting. 

Ber.       Full  gladly  would  I  read  him 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  91 

A   commentary   on    the    same    text   gratis. 
Duke.     I  came  not  here  to  prate  with  fools  and  madmen. 

(To  EUGENIA.) — Your  fame  is  blighted,  and  remember,  fair 

one, 

You  ne'er  can  gain  the  height  from  which  you  fell, 
But  the  quick  shaft  of  malice  will  o'ertake 
And   lay  you  prostrate.     Virtue   is   folly   now, 
Since  no  one  gives  you  credit  for  your  virtue. 
Ador.     Patience,  kind  heaven,  I'll  do  a  murder  yet. 
Duke.    Yield  to  my  wishes,  and  my  love  shall  place  you 
Where  e'en  the  proudest  matron  in  all  Florence 
Might  crown  the  boldest  flight  of  her  ambition. 
Ador.    Hell  gape  and  seize  him! 
Eug.    Leave  me,  I  beseech  you. 
Duke.    Your   name   will   be   retrieved! — No   slander    then, 

But  all  will  speak  your  praise,  smiles  guide  your  footsteps, 
And  every  eye  adore  your  bright  career, 
E'en  as  the  star  that  rules  its  destiny. 
Ber.    A  precious   rascal!    He'd   disgrace   a   gallows. 

Patience,    Adorni;    hear   his    story   out. 
Duke.    But,  on  the  other  hand,  there's  nought  to  live  for 

Save  shame  and  beggary. 
Eug.    Well,  be  it  so! 

'Tis  better  far  to  starve  in  innocence, 
Than  lead  a  life  of  sumptuousness  in  guilt. 
Ador.    Base  duke,  we  here  are  equal,  man  to  man. 
Tarry  one   instant  longer,   and  we  prove 
Which  is  the  better  metal. 
Ber.     Bravely  said. 

Your  grace  will  take  the  hint — my  wrongs  are  fresh, 
And  though  unarm'd,  trust  not  too  far  to  that: 
I've  still  the  weapons  mother  nature  gave, 
And  feel  disposed   to  use   them. 
Duke.    Lady,  farewell. 

Reflect  on  what  I've  spoken;  bear  in  mind 
Adorni's  life  depends  on  your  decision. 

(Exit.—R.  H. 

Ador.    Which  shall  not  weigh  a  feather  in  the  balance. 
Eug.    My  trial  is  severe. 
Ador.    True;  but  remember, 


92  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

The  Roman  father  saved  his  child  from  shame 
And  let  her  pure  blood  flow.     Remember  too, 
The  Roman  matron  dared  not  to  outlive 
Her  spotless  virtue.     Rouse  and  be  a  Roman. 
Scene  closes. 

SCENE  2 

An  apartment  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  ASTRABEL. — L.  H. 

Astra.    Fail  not,  my  stricken  heart! — courage,  courage!    I  have 
already  once  retrieved  my  poor  Beraldo's  life  from  the  very  jaws  of 
death,  and  again  the  duke  may  lend  a  patient  ear  to  my  prayer  to  mercy. 
Enter  LODOVICO. — R.  H. 

Lodo.    The  lady  Astrabel  at  court!  most  welcome. 

Astra.  Ah!  signor.  you  were  my  husband's  friend  in  happier  days, 
forget  it  not  in  his  adversity.  Can  you  bring  a  wretch,  so  fallen  as  I 
am,  into  the  presence  of  the  duchess? 

Lodo.    I  can,  and  gladly  will  attend  you. 

Astra.  And  yet  I  tremble  to  appear  before  her.  I  cannot  but 
remember  that  we  once  were  equals;  and  now! — O,  memory,  thou  art 
indeed  a  heavy  curse  to  the  unfortunte. 

Lodo.  Despond  not,  lady.  You  have  a  fast  friend,  I  assure  you, 
in  the  duchess. 

Astra.    Did  you  deliver  the  casket  to  her,  and  that  silly  message? 

Lodo.    I  did  as  you  desired. 

Astra.  I  cannot  but  reproach  myself  for  having  planted  a  pang 
in  her  gentle  bosom;  but  indignation  at  the  duke's  conduct,  and  the 
hope  that  she  might  turn  him  from  his  evil  course,  and  still  retain  his 
friendship  for  my  husband,  impelled  me  to  take  a  hasty  step  which 
my  cooler  judgment  condemns. 

Lodo.  Doubt  not  the  event.  Permit  me  to  attend  you  to  the 
duchess. 

Astra.  Thank  you;  my  tears  thank  you.  I  have  nothing  left  but 
tears.  Heaven  will  reward  you. 

(Exeunt.— R.  H. 

SCENE  3 

The  audience  chamber  of  the  Duke.  The  Duke  discovered  on 
his  throne,  with  his  court  around  him.  ADORNI  and  BERALDO  are  brought 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  93 

in,  in  chains,  EUGENIA  following  them  L.  H. — CLAUDIO  is  seen  in  the 
crowd  still  in  the  disguise. 

Duke.     Bring    forth    the    prisoners.     Signer    Adorni, 
Since   thou   hast  rashly   ta'en   upon   thyself, 
In  stern  contempt  of  justice  and  ourselves, 
The  punishment  imposed  on  Claudio; 
Although  our  kinsman,  and  a  valued  friend, 
Do  not  presume  upon  our  blood  or  friendship 
To  ask  for  mercy.    The  insulted  laws 
Must  be  appeased,  although  they  rend  in  twain 
The  bleeding  heartstrings  of  the  upright  judge. 

Ador.  I  bend  not  here  for  mercy.  I  should  spurn 
Life,  if  thy  gift.  So  thou  mayest  freely  take 
That,  thou  wouldst  make  a  heavy  curse  by  sparing. 

Duke.    Still    obdurate. 

Ador.    I  still  retain  the  pride  that  nature  gave  me. 

Eug.    Do  not  provoke  his  rage,  for  my  sake  do  not. 

Ador.    Let  the  pale  coward  shrink  who  fears  to  die, 
And  tremble  if  a  sceptred  knave  but  frown; 
But  he  that's  weary  of  this  pageant  life 
Can  laugh  to  scorn  the  impotence  of  man. 

Duke.    There's  one  way  left. 

Ador.     Curst  be  the  tongue  that  names  it. 

Ber.     Fly  high!     A  man  of  my  own  heart.     Fly  high! 
By  heaven  I  love  thee,  pride  and  all,  Adorni. 

Duke.    What  says  the  lady? 

Eug.     Hear  me,  in  mercy  hear. 

Duke.    Am  I  contemned  then? — To  the  scaffold  with  him. 

Eug.    Alas!    Adorni,  do  I  bring  thee  death! 

Ador.     Grieve  not  for  me;  for  I  had  rather  meet 
Death  clothed  in  all  variety  of  terror, 
Than  live  to  see  a  spot  upon  they  virtue. 

Eug.    Then  we  will  die  together. 

Clau.     Hold!     (Throws  of  disguise. 

Omnes.     Count  Claudio! 

Clau.    Here,  take  my  forfeit  life,  and  spare  my  friend. 

Ador.    How,  Claudio!    This  sacrifice  for  me! 

Clau.    I  owe  it  to  myself  and  to  the  world. 
'Tis  better  far  to  die  in  life's  meridian, 
And  let  the  ethereal  fire  return  as  bright 


94  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

As  when  'twas  given,  than  to  rekindle  it 
With  the  base  fuel  of  this  abject  world, 
As  millions  do,  and  dim  its  brilliancy 
Till  quite  extinguished,  and  no  spark  is  found 
Amid  the  worthless  ashes  that  remain. 

Duke.    For  thy  sake,  and  thy  father's,  chaste  Eugenia, 
We've  tented4  to  the  core  thy  matchless  worth, 
Which,  like  pure  gold,  unharm'd,  has  undergone 
The  fiery  trial.     In  proof  of  our  opinion, 
We  now  restore  thee  to  thy  former  rank, 
And  all  the  favor  that  was  lately  thine. 
And  since  thou'rt  parted  from  that  wayward  man, 
And  hast  the  power  to  make  a  happier  choice, 
Whoe'r  you  honor  with  your  hand,  we  promise 
Shall  meet  from  us  the  marks  of  special  favor. 

Ador.    That's  to  the  heart. 

Eug.     With  tears  I  thank  your  grace  for  your  opinion, 
And  feel  with  all  a  woman's  gratitude 
The  boundless  debt  I  owe  for  what  thou'st  done, 
To  vindicate  my  fame  so  deeply  wrong'd; 
But  do  not  think  me  wanting  in  respect, 
If  I  prefer  my  husband's  lowly  fate 
To  all  thy  princely  power  can  lavish  on  me. 

Ador.     I  never  knew  her  till  this  trying  moment. 

Duke.    Signor  Adorni,  dare  you  question  still 

This  wrong'd  one's  virtue  and  Count  Claudio's  truth? 

Ador.    I  dare  not  raise  my  head:  shame  weighs  me  down. 
My  heart  is  smitten,  and  my  pride  is  gone. 
To  think  that  my  unworthiness  had  gain'd 
The  love  of  two  such  beings,  and  to  think 
That  I  dared  question  the  decrees  of  heaven, 
And  mumur  at  my  fate  while  I  possess'd 
Its  choisest  gifts,  strikes  to  the  very  soul. 
But  my  dis temper 'd  mind  at  length  is  purged, 
And  all  things  now  appear  in  their  true  colours. 

Duke.     And  thou  in  thine.     As  the  harsh  sentence  passed 
On  Claudio  was  teeming  with  injustice, 
We  here  revoke  it;  and  again  restore 
To  him  th'  enjoyment  of  his  former  rights. 

4  sounded. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  95 

Clau.    Your  grace  has  bound  me  to  you  forever. 
Duke.    Why  stand  you  thus,  Beraldo?    Is  the  tongue 

Now  quite  disarm'd  that  scarce  an  hour  since  spoke 

Keen  daggers  every  word? 

Enter  TREBATZO. — R.  H. 

Ber.     I   am   bewilder 'd. 

A  stream  of  light  is  rushing  on  my  brain 
Too  dazzling  for  my  vision.     All  is  chaos! 
That  face! — In  any  other  place  than  this 
I'd  swear  it  was  Pacheco's. 
Treb.     And  swear  truly. 

And  yet  it  is  thy  father's  face,  Beraldo. 
Ber.     Where  will  this  end!     It  was  my  daily  prayer 
My  poverty  and  shame  might  be  conceal'd 
From  Lord  Trebatzo's  eyes,  until  the  grave 
Had  made  me  reckless  of  what  foot  trod  on  me; 
Yet  he  has  witness'd  all  my  abjectness, 
The  strong  convulsions  of  my  tortured  soul, 
When  it  ran  riot  in  its  agony, 
And  deem'd  no  eye  look'd  on  in  cold  derision: 
I  would  that  had  been  spared  me! 
Treb.     So  it  has; 

For  while  I  witness'd  all  the  sufferings 

My  cruelty  had  caused,  I  witness'd  too 

Thy  worth  and  manly  spirit,  and  still  more, 

Th'  unshaken  virtue  of  my  much  wrong'd  child. 

Ber.     Speak  not  of  that,  old  man,  speak  not  of  that! 

You  saw  her  take  the  letter  from  the  duke. 
Treb.    And  since  have  learnt  she  sent  it  to  the  duchess, 

To  lead  th'  apparent  rover  from  his  course. 

'Twas  I  devised  the  trial,  urged  the  duke 

T'  assume  a  part  his  noble  nature  spurns; 

But  he  will  ne'er  regret,  since  th'  event 

Restores  to  a  repentant  father's  heart 

A  spotless  daughter  and  an  injured  son. 

(Embraces  BERALDO. 
Duke.    Thy  words  shall  yet  be  verified,  Beraldo. 

Thou  shalt  fly  high,  thou  shalt  be  fledged  again. 


96  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OP  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Ber.    My  thoughts  are  in  such  tumult — pardon  me. 
The  change  has  been  so  sudden,  and  my  heart 
So  ill  prepar'd  to  meet  a  scene  like  this, 
My  tears  must  speak  for  it.     And  yet  these  drops, 
So  scalding  hot — so  painfully  they  spring, 
Though  I  would  gladly  name  their  fountain,  joy, 
I  may  not  yet. 
Treb.     (Turns  to  EUGENIA.)    Thou'st  had  a  fearful  trial, 

But  thou  hast  triumph'd,  and  art  still  my  pride. 
Eug.    Better  to  fail  in  any  other  cause 

Than  be  the  victor  in  a  cause  like  this, 
Where  the  victor's  vanquish'd. 

Enter   ORIANA. — R.    H.    conducting   ASTRABEL,   who   advances   slowly. 
They  are  accompanied  by  VIOLA,  who  is  immediately  joined  by  CLAUDIO. 
Ori.    Right,  Claudio,  she  is  thine,  and  if  she  dare  to  deny  it,  call 
upon  me  for  the  proof. 

Viola.  I  would  not  be  so  bold  as  to  bring  your  grace's  word  in  ques 
tion;  so,  Claudio,  there's  my  hand. 

Clau.     With  rapture  I  receive  it.     (They  retire. 
Treb.    Look  around  thee,  Bell,  and  perchance  thou'lt  find  more 
friends  present  than  thou  expected  to  meet. — Old  Pacheco. 

Astra.  Pacheco  here!  Ah!  my  father! — Dare  I  throw  myself  at 
your  feet,  embrace  those  knees,  and  ask  forgiveness? 

Treb.     Not  so,  my  child.     In  my  arms — this  bosom,  in  the  very 

core  of  my  old  heart,  is  the  place  for  such  a  daughter  as  thou  hast  been. 

Astra.    My  father!    And  am  I  at  last  restored  to  a  father's  love. 

(Rushes  into  TREBATZO'S  arms. 
Duke.     No  more  of  jealousy,  my  lovely  Oriana. 
Ori.    Your  grace  has  found  a  way  to  cure  me;  and  yet  you  dressed 
up  virtue  in  such  a  villainous  garb,  you  cannot  blame  me  for  mistaking 
it. 

Duke.     Certainly  not.    However,  the  next  time  you  detect  me  in  that 
dress,  pray  deem  my  virtue  masquerading  still.     I  ask  but  that. 
Ori.     I'll  grant  it — if  I  can. 

Treb.  Beraldo,  receive  thy  wife  from  her  father's  hand.  I  know 
her  matchless  worth,  and  with  all  my  heart  do  I  bestow  her  on  thee. 
There,  there,  bless  you,  my  children,  bless  you. 

Ber.  Thank  heaven,  Astrabel  is  restored!  The  penitent  will  no 
longer  be  trampled  on!  The  diseased  mind  has  been  cured;  the  repro 
bate  is  again  acknowledged;  woman  has  had  her  trial,  and  in  passing 


THE   LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  97 

the  fiery  ordeal,  she  has  proved  herself,  in  weal  or  woe,  the  brightest 
jewel  that  adorns  the  life  of  man. 

(Curtain  falls. 

THE  END 


98  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The  following  list  includes  only  such  books  as  have  been  of  direct  value  in  the 

preparation  of  this  thesis. 

Adams,  W.  Davenport,  A  Dictionary  of  the  Drama,  Philadelphia,  1904. 

Alger,  William  R.,  Life  of  Edwin  Forrest,  2  vols.  Philadelphia,  1877. 

Barham,  R.  H.  D.,  The  Life  and  Remains  of  Theodore  Edward  Hook,  London,  1877. 

Barrett,  Lawrence,  "Charlotte  Cushman,"  a  lecture.  Dunlap  Society  Publications, 
Ser.  1,  vol.  9,  New  York,  1889. 

Brown,  T.  A.,  A  History  of  the  New  York  Stage,  From  the  First  Performance  in  1732 
to  1901.  3  vols.  New  York,  1903. 

Burton's  Gentleman's  Magazine,  Vol.  V,  p.  119  (September,  1839). 

Clapp,  W.  W.,  A  Record  of  the  Boston  Stage,  Boston  and  Cambridge,  1853. 

Clarence,  Reginald,   The  Stage  Cyclopedia,  London,   1909. 

Clement,  Mrs.  Clara  Erskine,  Charlotte  Cushman,  Boston,  1882. 

Crawford,  M.  C.,  The  Romance  of  the  American  Theatre,  Boston,  1913. 

Daly,  Augustin,  "The  American  Dramatist,"  No.  Am.  Re-view,  Vol.  142,  p.  485. 

Daly,  C.  P.,  "First  Theatre  in  America,"  Dunlap  Society  Publications,  Ser.  2,  Vol.  1, 
New  York,  1896. 

Dekker,  Thomas,  The  Mermaid  Series,  Vol.  16,  London,  1887.  (Contains  the  Honest 
Whore.) 

Dobson,  Austin,  Four  Frenchwomen,  New  York,  N.  D.  (Contains  a  charming  essay 
upon  Madame  de  Genlis) 

Dunlap,  William,  The  Dramatic  Works  of  William  Dunlap,  Vol.  II.  New  York,  1816. 
(Contains  The  Italian  Father) 

Dunlap,  William,  History  of  the  American  Theatre,  New  York,  1832. 

Durang,  Charles,  The  Philadelphia  Stage,  From  the  year  1749  to  the  year  1855.  Partly 
compiled  from  the  papers  of  his  father,  the  late  John  Durang;  with  notes  by  the 
editors  (of  the  Philadelphia  Sunday  Dispatch).  Published  serially  in  the  Phila 
delphia  Despatch  as  follows:  First  series,  1749-1821,  beginning  in  the  issue  of 
May  7,  1854;  Second  series,  1822-1830,  beginning  June  29,  1856;  Third  series, 
1830-1-1855,  beginning  July  8,  1860. 

Duval,  Alexandre,  Shakespeare  Amoureux  ou  la  piece  a  V etude.    Paris,  1804. 

Ford,  P.  L.,  The  Beginnings  of  the  American  Dramatic  Literature.  New  England  Mag., 
New  Series,  Vol.  II,  February,  1894,  pp.  673-87. 

Fraser's  Magazine,  London,  Vol.  16,  pp.  610.  ff.  (Review  of  Colonel  Crockett) 

Gaiffe,  F.,  Le  Drame  en  France  au  XVIII6  Siecle.    Paris,  1910. 

Genest,  John,  Some  Account  of  the  English  Stage.     10  volumes.  Bath.  1832. 

Genlis,  Madame  de,  Le  siege  de  La  Rochelle,  ou  le  Malheur  de  la  conscience.  Paris, 
1857.  (First  edition,  1808) 

Hennequin,  Alfred,  Characteristics  of  the  American  Drama.    Arena,  Vol.  1,  p.  700 

Hook,  Theodore,  The  Man  of  Many  Friends.    London.  (Contains  Doubts  and  Fears) 

Hugo,  Victor,  Oeuvres  Completes  de  Victor  Hugo.  48  vols.  Paris,  1882.  (Vol.  19  con 
tains  Angelo,  Tyran  de  Padoue.) 

Hutton,  Laurence,  The  American  Play.    Lippincott's,  Vol.  37,  p.  289. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH  99 

Ireland,  J.  N.,  Records  of  the  New  York  Stage,  from  1750  to  1860.    2  vols.  New  York, 

1866-67. 

Lenient,  Ch.,  La  Comedie  en  France  au  XIX6  Siecle.    2  vols.  Paris,  1898. 
Lucas,  Hippolyte,  Histoire  Philosophique  et  Litteraire  du  Theatre  Francais  depuis  son 

Origine  jusqu'a  nos  jours.     Paris,    1843. 

Moses,  M.  J.,  Famous  Actor-Families  in  America,  New  York,  1906. 
Moses,  M.  J.,  The  American  Dramatist,  Boston,  1911. 

Oberholtzer,  Ellis  Paxson,  Literary  History  of  Philadelphia,  Philadelphia,  1906. 
Paulding,  James  Kirk,  American  Comedies,  Philadelphia,  1847. 
Payne,  John  Howard,  Peter  Smink.    London,  n.   d. 

Pence,  James  H.,  The  Magazine  and  the  Drama,  An  index.  Dunlap  Society  Publica 
tions,  Ser.  2,  Vol.  2.    New  York,  1896. 
Que"rard,  J.  M.,  La  France  Litteraire,  ou  Dictionnaire  Bibliographique.     Paris,  1827. 

10  vols. 
Qu6rard,  J.  M.,  Le  Litterature  Franqaise  Contemporaine.     1827-1840.    Paris,    1840 

6  vols. 
Quinn,  Arthur  Hobson,  Representative  American  Plays.     New  York,  1917.     (Con~ 

tains  an  excellent  bibliography) 

Rees,  James,  The  Dramatic  Authors  of  America.    Philadelphia  1845. 
Rees,  James,  The  Life  of  Edwin  Forest.     Philadelphia,  n.  d.  (1874) 
Seilhamer,  G.  O.,  History  of  the  American  Theatre.     3  vols.  Philadelphia,  1888-91. 
Smith,  Horace  W.,  Life  and  Correspondence  of  the  Rev.  William  Smith,  D.  D.    2  vols. 

Philadelphia,  1879-80. 

Smith,  R.  Penn,  The  Actress  of  Padua,  Philadelphia,  1836. 
Smith,  R.  Penn,  Colonel  Crockett's  Exploits  and  Adventures  in  Texas.     Cincinnati, 

1839. 

Smith,  R.  Penn,   The  Deformed.     Philadelphia,   1830. 
Smith,  R.   Penn,   The  Disowned.     Philadelphia,   1830. 
Smith,  R.  Penn,  Eight  of  January.     Philadelphia,  1829. 
Smith,   R.   Penn,    The  Forsaken.     Philadelphia,    1831. 
Smith,  R.  Penn,  History  of  Philadelphia.     Philadelphia,  n.  d.  (1828) 
Smith,  R.  Penn,  Is  She  a  Brigand?  Philadelphia,  n.  d.  (1835). 
Smith,  R.  Penn,  The  Miscellanious  Works  of  the  Late  Richard  Penn  Smith.     Phila 
delphia,  1856. 

Smith,   R.    Penn,   Quite   Correct.   Alexander's   Acting   Drama.   Philadelphia,    1835. 
Thieme,  Hugo  P.,  Guide  Bibliographique  de  la  Litterature  FranQaise  de  1800  a  1906. 

Paris,  1907. 
Wegelin,  Oscar,  "Early  American  Plays,  1714-1830.     Dunlap  Society  Publications, 

Ser.  2,  Vol.  10.     New  York,  1900,  Revised  ed.  1905. 
Wemyss,  Francis  C.,  Chronology  of  the  American  Stage  from  1752  to  1852.    New  York, 

n.  d.  (1852). 
Wemyss,  F.  C.,  Theatrical  Biography  of  Eminent  Actors  and  Authors.    New  York, 

(185-) 


100  THE  LITE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH 

Wemyss,  F.  C,  Twenty-six  Years  of  the  Life  of  an  Actor  Manager.    2  vols.  New  York, 

1847. 
Woods,  Diary,  A  Manuscript  Diary  or  Daily  Account  Book  ofW.  B.  Wood,  in  9  vols. 

extending  from  1810  to  1835.     (In  the  Library  of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania) 
Wood,  W.  B.,  Personal  Recollections  of  the  Stage  .  .  .  During  a  Period  of  Forty  Years. 

Philadelphia,  1855. 


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